


By Her Will Alone

by AndyAO3, AntipodeanPixie



Series: Dissonant Verses [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Disabled Inquisitor, Gen, I love this character but they are a dick, Long running, Will add characters as they arrive, Will later AU like WOAH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAO3/pseuds/AndyAO3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntipodeanPixie/pseuds/AntipodeanPixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am broken, and mended stronger. I am given all the disparate armies and factions of Southern Thedas to work with, against Tevinter and a foe we do not yet know. I can expect no great aid nor succor. But I will solve this, if by nothing by my will alone."</p><p>-Excerpt from the diary of Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan, 9:41 Dragon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This gon be long. This gon follow canon. And then this gon veer wildly off course. Cirridwen has a very tweaked backstory compared to standard Trevelyan, and this will go in some interesting directions interacting with my other two dragons, Amry Surana and Temperance Hawke. Because sometimes, I say fuck canon and take a third option.
> 
> AndyAO3 has not been involved in the actual writing of this, but she's the co-parent of so many of my plotbunnies that to exclude her would be ridiculous.

Oh but she ACHED. Cirridwen leaned on her staff heavily for a moment, taking the opportunity to duck out of sight into another hallway to lean against the wall, taking pressure off her braced knee and letting the cramp in her arm from holding so tightly to her staff ease. 

It was bad enough being part of a mage delegate at the Conclave, representing those mages who had thrown off their chains and promptly gone into hiding, dragging every fellow mage they could find to safety with them. Beating Templars from their doors, harrying Tevinter slavers who harried their stragglers in turn, trying to keep those who could hardly cast a spark or close a papercut from being strung up by mobs. And now her shattered knee and carved side complained bitterly at the strength it took to keep her facade of calm collection and grace up against the sheer animosity she faced. She'd left Carth to look after their lot, hopefully keeping them in check and out of trouble while she tried to find the Divine to try and get a brief word in. See where Justinia's own sympathies lay. The Free Marcher straightened again, promising herself she could rest once she'd found the Divine, maybe seat them both in deference to the other woman's advanced age. 

“Help me!” Cirridwen's head jerked up, a tightly wound instinct to respond to alarms driving her to move at a loping approximation of a run down the hallway. This was _not_ the place to let trouble go, when everyone was already on the edge of further war. She grappled with the door handle, finding it locked.

“Hold the sacrifice still!” ordered a rasping dreadful voice, and Cirridwen had heard enough. She stepped back , setting her weight on her good leg, and threw her left hand out at the door while gripping hard with her right at her staff. The heavy wood with sunburst insignia flew open and bounced off the walls, the locking mechanism flying across the room. Darting in, Cirridwen took in the tableau in a moment, golden eyes flicking everywhere.

The Divine. Pinned and held aloft like an escaped slave. An orb lit with Fade light. And her assailants... She did not hesitate. She never really had. A Fade Step across the room as she aimed to dislodge their foci, knowing a thing or two about disrupting rituals. Bring down the foci and it would fizzle ou-

As her palm connected with the orb, she realised she'd made a critical mistake in her urge to act, pain lancing up her arm and right through her very soul, her already clenched teeth grinding on a scream before everything was awash in violent green.

* * *

She kept her gaze fixed on a midpoint, staring into space as if she were Tranquil. She didn't think of the ache in her knee, except to note the press of her brace on it. If required, she could still stand. She inhaled deeply, felt the comforting press of her supportive vest. She at least was sitting straight. Cirridwen did not think of the heavy metal around her wrists. Even the occasional flares of agony from her hand was only clinically noted. The constant whispers of the Fade around her were the only things in sharp focus. Somebody was coming to her. Somebody new. Somebody _angry_. Then the door to her cell swung open, two women entering. One walked with the purposeful stride of a warrior, the other with a light and elegant step not misplaced at court.

She would need to be present for this. Cirridwen blinked, and then eerie gold eyes fixated on the one she presumed to be her chief captor at this point. The woman leaned close to her, while the other hung back. Cirridwen remained unmoved, eyes tracking the one in the hood.

“Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now?” she demanded. Nevarran, Cirridwen noted. Scars on her face meant that the swagger and the sword were not for show. "The Conclave is destroyed, and everyone who attended dead. The only survivor, is you.”

Accusation, grief. People who mattered dearly to her were dead. Everyone... Cirridwen's eyes came alight as they shot to Cassandra, animating her previously empty face.

“Everyone? Dead? How?” She asked, horror curling deep in her gut. She'd felt the screeching pain more clearly than the hands hauling her through snow and over ice, where she didn't know. But she did not think that it was from... her group, her colleagues, the few students they'd brought with them. The woman ignored her words, iron hand grasping her arm. Her grip was strong, grinding bone as she held Cirridwen's hand up to her face. Her glowing green hand that sparked softly, save for the way that pain lanced through her. She wished the Nevarran hadn't brought it to her attention as she suddenly became aware of it. It stank of the Fade and made her skin crawl as she flicked her eyes up to meet a steely gaze. 

"Explain this."

“I can not. I do not understand this... thing myself.”

“What do you mean you can't?” demanded the other woman, her voice breaking a little as she paced in circles around her, the other woman who had slipped her attention joining the circling like carrion crows. 

“I don't know what this is. I don't know how it got there.” She'd be fine, if she didn't think too much about where 'there' was.

“You're lying!” the warrior thundered, hands landing hard on Cirridwen's shoulders before the redhead intervened.

“We need her Cassandra.” she interjected, guiding the other woman off her. That the brunette allowed it even when so obviously distressed and aggressive spoke to Cirridwen of long acquaintance, a certain level of trust. They were friends, or at the least worked closely together. An image of a scowling face lighting in comprehension crossed her mind, and she looked up.

“Everyone? Everyone who was at the Conclave, Divine, clerics, down to the last servant's child? Dead?” she tried to wrap her head around it. Around the idea of some sort of... Annulment that she was being held responsible for by surviving. She carefully packed that thought away. She could not falter now.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” asked the calmer one. Cirridwen looked up at her, and winced. Loose thoughts, sideways, slipping and rearranging all the time. This one was far more dangerous than Cassandra.

“I remember running. Things were chasing me... with too many legs. And... a figure.” Cirridwen stared at the sunburst carved into the floor, thinking hard. Racking her memory. Chantry hat, vaguely female form... “a woman. I tried to reach her, and she was reaching back to me.”

“A woman?” the redhead echoed, folding her arms and jerking her chin in slightly. Interest, coiling rising, hope, a recognition. Cassandra must have known the woman well, for a moment later she was guiding her away from Cirridwen.

“Go to the forward camp, Leiliana. I will take her to the rift.” The other woman fixed her a long stare as she left, and Cirridwen finally placed her accent. Orlesian, with a Fereldan influence.

Cassandra returned to her as Cirridwen’s guard sheathed their swords. Kneeling, she removed the manacles and bound Cirridwen’s wrists. She allowed it. _-Let them see you helpless. They will relax-_. She paused when it came to standing, wondering how she’d make it to her feet. Cassandra solved that problem by aiding her to stand and Cirridwen took a moment to hiss through her teeth at the pins and needles of restored circulation. 

“ What _has_ happened?” Cirridwen asked, feeling the accusing stares of the guards boring into her. 

“ It would be easier to show you,” she said briskly, guiding the mage outside. Cirridwen took cautious steps after her, squinting in the bright light as she expanded her awareness. Souls, bright spots, lots of them. The overwhelming tang of fear and unease. The caress of the Veil. Or what should have been a caress. It felt thin, cobwebby and catching at her skin rather than the usual soft slide. And then she looked up at the sky. It was circular, large, green, swirling, and had _rocks_ the size of inns floating in it. 

“What is that?” she asked, inflection utterly flat as her eyebrow raised to meet her hairline. 

“That is the Breach. It is a massive rift into the world of demons, and it grows larger with every passing hour,” her guide told her grimly. Cirridwen’s mind raced. No wonder the Veil was thin, if a hole that large had been punched into it. She couldn’t believe it, not logically, but there it was. Voices caressed and hissed around her, clamouring for her attention. _-I see it. Sit tight. I see it.-_ But how? How did something like that happen? “It is not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” Cirridwen narrowed her eyes at the Breach, slowly catching up with Cassandra. 

“Explosions don’t cause that kind of damage.” The warrior turned to face her. 

“This one did. Unless we act, this Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” Cirridwen’s gaze dropped to Cassandra’s, eyes wide at the implications.

“What? If that grows entirely, removing the Veil,” the things that danced about the edges of her dreams, the beings that pressed in on her conscience at every turn. Walking free, amongst people unarmed against them, unwary and vulnerable... her rumination was interrupted when with another resounding boom the veil expanded yet again, and agony flared up her arm. Clawing pinching burning Fade energy that she didn't know what to do with, like being hit with ice and fire and lightning all at once coupled with a smite. Her knees buckled and collapsed as she clutched vainly at her wrist in an instinctive attempt to prevent it spreading. She could feel the Veil fracturing and pulling around it, stray threads cutting into her being. Then as quickly as the pain had arrived, it left. She managed to unscrunch her eyes to see Cassandra kneeling in the snow in front of her.

“Each time the Breach spreads, so does that mark. And it is killing you,” the other woman informed her gravely, and Cirridwen bared her teeth at the damn thing. She had not survived what she had to die because some mystery tumour of a mark had made her hand its home. “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time.”

Cirridwen lifted burning gold eyes to fixate on the Nevarran. “There won't be much of our world either, if we do not try.”

* * *

Marching up the mountainside was difficult. While the snow had been cleared from the immediate path Cirridwen had no staff to aid her, even if Cassandra had been good enough to free her hands once they were out of the town. Crumpled bodies, many in Templar armour, lay alongside the path along with burning debris. Always with the burning debris, Cirridwen noted distantly, before another flare up sent agony shooting up her arm and stole the strength from her legs. Cassandra helped her up again, and they continued, Cirridwen pressing the other for details to fill in the disturbingly large gap in her memories while voices pressed insistently on her mind from the shredded Veil. It took her a moment to realise that one of the voices was Cassandra. 

“How I survived? There's urchins in Minrathous who know more of it than I do. Right now it's nothing but scattered nightmares and conjecture. Whatever happened, I don't think it was my conscious doing.” Perhaps it was talking to Cassandra and the general shock of the situation that made her deaf, but she heard the cried warning almost too late. An instinctive shield flared around her as the bridge beneath them collapsed under a bolt from the breach, the two woman tumbling onto the frozen river below. Cirridwen let herself roll to a stop, having learned the hard way that to resist falls was to risk far greater damage. The first thing she did on rolling to a stop was check her companion. The warrior had already rolled to her feet and was looking to her. Good, she didn't have yet another death that wasn't her fault to explain. 

The next thing she checked for was to see if that blast had been aimed. But no. It seemed no different from any of the other random missiles plummeting from the sky like debris from volcanic eruptions. Speaking of... Cirridwen ducked her head on instinct as another flaming ball of green clipped the ridge nearby and crashed into the lake. She desperately hoped the river was thoroughly frozen as she had no desire to go for a swim if the ice broke. She could feel the panicked whispers about her, and then something reared up from the point of impact. She did not want to be lying down for this. Surging to her feet, Cassandra immediately darted forwards, calling to her. 

“Stay behind me!” Cirridwen was only too happy to obey, she didn't want to know what her skill set would do when the Veil was so thin. Too thin, she realised as the ground Cassandra had just covered bubble threateningly. It was between her and the warrior. Cassandra would be flanked and Cirridwen would be defenceless. She scooted backwards over the ice, aware that she was utterly unfit for a fight when something rolled as her hand struck it. She looked down. A staff. It wasn't a mage's tool, this one plain wood with no embellishments. It curled over at the end before turning into a hook, and Cirridwen almost laughed as she realised what the damn thing was. She grabbed the shepherd's crook and used it to haul herself to her feet, turning to face the demon swiftly advancing on her. She had not much choice, it seemed. 

Firstly, the damned thing was far too close. She bent her will on her surroundings, sending out an intense pulse that knocked it several feet back. The whispers grew louder, begging her to let them help. Let them keep her safe. 

“Undo my foe,” she commanded, voice low and even. Around her green shapes burst into being, the clearest parts of them being the heads and arms as they descended on the demon. The spirits clawed at it, ripped and unraveled. With a shriek it was dissolved, scattered into parts far too small for even the compromised reality of their surroundings to support. 

Cassandra drew her blade from her foe as it collapsed before her, and Cirridwen leaned on her staff as her satellites faded away to wait any further commands or needs. There were no further warning choruses, and she looked to the Nevarran.

“We're clear, for now,” she told the other woman only to have her turn and advance on her, sword out still. 

“Drop your weapon, NOW.” the other commanded, voice steely. Cirridwen wrapped both hands around it, leaning on the wood heavily. 

“I picked this stick up because there was a demon between us that needed dealing to.” Cirridwen informed the other, voice level and calm.  
“You don't need to fight. Drop it.” Cassandra commanded again, eyes unwavering. 

“Be that as it may, I need to walk. Unless you intend to carry me up the mountain, I _will_ need this staff.” Cirriwen argued, still clinging to it and almost groaning at the relief it gave her side. “This isn't even a mage staff, but I can and will clobber somebody with it.”

For a moment the women were frozen, before Cassandra sighed. 

“You're right. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenceless.” Her sword returned to its sheath and Cirridwen tilted her head at the other woman. She had not expected Cassandra to capitulate so easily, nor to turn her back as she began up the hill again. Then she paused, and swung around to face Cirridwen again. “I should remember, you did not attempt to run,” she allowed, and Cirridwen dipped her head as graciously as any lady at court. Cassandra dug in a pouch at her waist and produced a little clutch of flasks. “Take these potions. You may have need of them.” Cirridwen followed her up the hill, feeling far more confident and quick on her feet now that she had a walking aid. 

“Where are all your soldiers?” Cirridwen asked, the question niggling at her. Thus far they had seen precisely two scouts running down the hill for Haven, a number of dead templars and scattered mages and soldiers. But no-one else. 

“They are at the forward camp, or fighting. We are on our own for now,” Cassandra returned as the pair trudged up the hill as fast as Cirridwen could go. Cirridwen frowned, feeling a new pulling tickle. It was hard to tell, with her spirits agitated and the way the Veil all about them was so ragged. But it felt even weaker, almost as if it weren't there. They crested one of the numerous small rises in their way, and she realised she was right. There before them was a small squad at odds with demons, and another shifting fade-mass jutting through the Veil into their world.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Cirridwen did was readjust her grip on her staff. The second thing she did was manifest a crushing force that squashed one and a half demons. She was very glad that many demons didn't bleed, per se, or that would have been horrendously messy. As it was, the demon struggled to maintain its manifestation before giving up and dissolving into the ground as Cassandra smashed her shield into its neighbour's face. Cirridwen noticed a soldier on the ground and moved quickly to his side, stretching her unmarked hand down to him. He grasped it, and she pushed healing through to him. The green glow shot through his body and settled somewhere about his midriff, though she couldn't see blood. At a guess, she'd peg internal damage, the kind that would kill a man in three days with no one the wiser to his injury. They were clear of demons now, as she took stock of her companions. Three soldiers, a dwarf with the most truly bizarre and complex crossbow she'd ever seen, and a bald elf who made her want to shove a knitted cap over his ears. 

“Quickly, before more come through!” the elf shouted, and seized her left hand. Pulling her palm up to face the rift, she lost her balance and stumbled forwards, barely catching herself on her staff. Then _something_ happened. She could feel it, like there was a perfect palm sized gap in the fade that she could press her aching hand to, holding it together. It was as if the world had gone into sharp focus, everything magnified. Time fell away and she could see the fine torn threads of the Veil. More than that, she could see how she could use the power in her palm to darn over the hole, repairing it, replacing it, as if it had never been ripped and strengthening it in the process. And then with a pop, the power receded and the tear closed with a sound like crunching gravel. Cirridwen immediately withdrew her hand from him, curling it protectively towards her chest as she fixed golden eyes on the elf. 

“What did you do.” It was not a question, so much as a command that expected obedience. Who was this man who had just managed to make use of this mark on her hand that she did not understand at all? 

“I did nothing,” he said mildly, shoulders slightly forwards, chin ducked. “The credit is yours.”

“Horse-shit,” she said suspiciously, still eyeing him suspiciously as spirits chorused in her ears. “You poked my hand at it, and something happened that I do not understand.”

“Whatever opened the Breach also placed that mark upon your hand,” he said, seemingly untroubled by her outburst. “I theorized that the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake, and it seems I was correct.”

Cassandra strode over, her ears seeming to have perked almost visibly at the mention of a possible solution. “So that means it could close the Breach itself.” 

“Possibly,” the elf allowed, while Cirridwen continued to eye him suspiciously. Clearly, he was a mage. An elvish mage, dressed Dalish with his lack of footwear and jawbone pendant, but he lacked any trace of the Dalish accents. And had apparently been in close enough contact with her mark to be crafting working theories about it. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he continued, fingers toying together below his waist. Was he Circle? Apostate? She had difficulty imagining Cassandra allowing an apostate to simply poke and prod at her, given the circumstances. 

“Good to know! Here I thought we'd be ass deep in demons forever,” quipped the dwarf, adjusting his gloves, and Cirridwen left off sideyeing the elf long enough to look to him. Had to be a surfacer, running around with that much chest exposed in the snow. Although the pelt on it probably helped some. “Varric Tethras: Rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tag-along,” he introduced himself. He was already Cirridwen's favourite, just for having the Maker-damned manners to introduce himself before demanding answers or invading her personal space. Cirridwen's eyebrow went up slightly as he winked at Cassandra, and she wondered if he was another strong-armed 'ally'. 

“Cirridwen Trevelyan: matriarch of the Mage Friends and current prime suspect for all things awry,” she said dryly, and Varric grinned at her broadly. 

“Looking forward to clearing through that valley with you, then.” the dwarf tipped his chin at her before Cassandra strode up. 

“Absolutely not. Your help is appreciated Varric, but...”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me.” For a moment she glared down at the dwarf, nearly toe to toe with him, before making a sound of pure disgust and turning on her heel.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see that you still live.”

“He means, 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept',” Varric interjected, and Cirridwen raised both eyebrows at Solas. 

“How?”

“A combination of healing magic and wards, though I could only slow it,” he said, looking apologetic. Cirridwen pursed her lips, but decided that now was not the time to raise a fuss. She knew what wards and healing magic could do, and she doubted heavily that this was some of it. “Cassandra, you should know. The magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. I find it difficult to believe any mage could have such power.” He shot up in Cirridwen's estimation with his quiet backing up of her innocence. 

“Understood,” Cassandra said shortly. “We must get to the forward camp, quickly.”

“Well, Bianca's excited,” Varric quipped, and Cirridwen turned to follow the rest of the group. 

“Oh good, somebody ought to be having a good time in all this.” Cirridwen grumbled, before sighing at the road ahead. There was a wooden barrier in the way. The stupid wood was about the height of her hip, and she couldn't bloody go around the barrier. Everyone else hopped over without a second thought, and she shuffled up to the planks. Leaning over it, she planted her staff firmly on the ground, before resting her arse on the edge of the topmost plank. Attempting to lift her damaged leg up didn't go too well. She could only get her knee up enough to get over the wood, and then she couldn't straighten enough to get her heel over. “You alright there?” asked Varric and Cirridwen thumped her foot back down with a growl. 

“A moment. Also please don't shoot us.” she said, and before Varric could inquire as to just who he was supposed to not be shooting, Cirridwen allowed her clamouring helpers through. A larger spirit, solid almost to the waist, carefully picked her up as she looped her arms over its shoulders. “Hold the staff, please,” she directed a small set of wisps, who cuddled up against the wood to keep it upright while the large spirit gently carried her over the barrier and then paused. “Place me down.” concernworryyourlimbisdamaged “I know. But I can do this by myself. If I have need again, I will call you again.” The spirit set her down carefully, its featureless head angled to watch her closely as it took the staff from the wisps and pressed it into her hand. “Thank you. You are dismissed.” The green glowing head ducked in acknowledgement and winked out of existence while the wisps vibrated around her. “You may stay, and assist me for the time being.” Cirridwen turned to see the trio all staring at her. 

“Ok, that was some weird shit. They always listen to you like Mabari?” the dwarf asked while Cassandra looked suspicious and the elf just looked delighted. 

“Yes. I never use greater ones. If the wisps start to pick up too much negativity, I unmake them. If they start to pick up enough positivity to form a greater sense of self, I send them back to the Fade to continue growing. It's not good for them to linger here past the nascent stages.” At that moment, Cirridwen would not have sounded out of place in a lecture.

“You deal with demons?” Cassandra asked, voice hard.

“I deal with spirits. All demons begin as spirits. It's only through exposure to the worst of humanity that they become demons. They are monsters of our own making.” Cirridwen said tartly. “Now I assume we have a forward camp to get to?”

“These spirits hold no hostility to us, Seeker,” Solas interjected quietly, and the woman made another noise of frustration before turning on her heel. They had not gone five minutes before Cirridwen's attendants vibrated about her, whispering sudden warnings. 

“Have a care!” Cirridwen said sharply, instinctively summoning a barrier about the party as more burning green debris from the sky landed near them. From the smoking mess they left of the ground more twisted figures arose. 

“Demons ahead!” the apostate elf told them, rather unnecessarily in Cirridwen's opinion, while the dwarf swung his crossbow from his back. 

“Glad you brought me now Seeker?” he asked, while the warrior barely spared him a glance as she hefted her shield and charged forwards. The fight did not take long, leaving them on a lake frozen solid. Behind them was a house still standing, while in front of them another blazed. Cirridwen immediately started for the house, her attendants spiraling out from her. _-Check for life-_ she ordered, and they descended on the burning structure even as Cirridwen balanced herself and knocked in the door with her staff. 

“Whatcha doing there, Bright-Eyes?” asked Varric, while Cassandra made a disgusted sound. Cirridwen was getting the feeling that that was one of the Lady Seeker's primary methods of communication. 

“Checking,” Cirridwen said shortly, squinting into the fire before holding her hand out to it. Fire streamed from the building to pool in her hand, slowly shrinking into a manageable flame that she then crushed gently between her fingers. Hobbling in, she knocked ashes and the collapsed remains of a bookcase aside even as her attendants flocked to her again. nolivesnodeathsnoonehere “Good. Nobody in here.” Her gaze distracted by something shiny, she reached out to snag a tipped pouch of coins on the untouched desk, pocketing it. Cassandra was too busy eyeing the creaking ceiling to notice, but Varric saw her and raised an eyebrow. She raised both of hers back. 

“I have mouths to feed, and children outgrow clothes at a horrific rate,” she told him, unable to help the long habit of picking up supplies wherever she could for the mages who came under her care. “Check the other home.” Spirits raced off to the other house.

She started back up the hill, the Seeker moving to keep pace with her. “Why would you want to check that house?” she asked, tone an odd mix of strident and curious. Cirridwen kept her eyes forward even as the spirits informed her that there was nobody there. 

“Because if it was my siblings or parents caught under a burning beam, I'd want somebody to pull them out,” she answered shortly, before hissing a breath through her teeth at another flair up of the thrice-damned mark. As she faltered the Seeker caught her elbow. 

“I know it is difficult. But we must keep moving,” the woman told her with something that sounded suspiciously like sympathy. Varric piped up from behind her.

“So, are you innocent?” 

“I don't know. As far as I know myself, I absolutely didn't blow anything up.”

“That'll get you every time,” the dwarf said sagely. “Should have spun a story.”

“That is what you would do,” scoffed Cassandra. 

“It's more believable, and less prone to result in premature execution,” Varric protested. Cirridwen sighed. It wouldn't be the first time templars and their ilk had been howling for her head. She smiled a little darkly to herself. It would probably end about as well for Cassandra if she tried. Fortunately, she was saved from further ruminating by the sky very kindly spitting out some demons to take her mind off things. Not in the mood for games, she squashed one nearly instantly into a cube of dust. 

As they finished up and proceeded, she could hear Cassandra worrying about Leiliana. “We haven't seen a body,” Cirridwen said simply. “And until you see one, she's not dead.” She was puffing hard as they crested the hill, feeling a foreboding thrumming through the fade around them when she realised. That was what a rift felt like. And sure enough, there was another one before locked doors, a handful of brave soldiers facing the demons that were tied to it. Cirridwen took two deep breaths as Cassandra charged past her before bellowing at the demons. 

“OI! Here!” she threw a concentrated lightning bolt to the demon closest to the rift, controlling the bounce of power to keep it from striking allies. Skull heads on sloping shoulders turned to grimace at her beneath leather hoods as they swam through the air towards her, one promptly losing its face to Cassandra's shield while a fist of stone flattened another. Focusing on the rift instead as Varric thoughtfully provided cover-fire, Cirridwen felt the difference in the Veil as her attendants harangued the remaining shades, keeping them as easy targets for the archers. She could just close it, prevent any more from coming through... The mage tried it and stumbled, the faint yank of power catching on the demons and sending them reeling. The angry green rent in the air remained the same.

“They must be dead first, their presence won't allow me to close it otherwise!” Cirridwen called, getting an affirming grunt from Cassandra. A minute or two more, and Cirridwen felt the difference she was looking for, like an arrow drawn from a wound. Bringing the mark to bear, she sewed the rift shut before leaning heavily on her staff as a bone deep ache started to make itself known in her calf muscle opposite her damaged knee. 

“The rift is closed! Open the gate!” Cassandra hailed, somebody unseen responding. Cirridwen felt a hand at her elbow and looked to see the elf, Solas, standing there, expression concerned. 

“Does it tax you?” he asked, voice soft. 

“Not quite,” she told him, straightening again. A soft warm tide ebbed down her spine and into her legs, easing the aches. She cut a quick glance at him, no more than a suspicious flick of the eyes, and he ducked his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“We are clear for the moment. Well done.” 

Cirridwen dipped her chin just slightly in acknowledgement before walking forwards to follow Cassandra into the forward camp, Varric ambling alongside. “Well, whatever that thing on your hand is, it's useful,” he remarked. Cirridwen looked down at him, a small smile tugging at her mouth. 

“I'll be pleased if it doesn't prove fatal.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's likely that as I write more, chapters will end up being condensed. Just a mild warning for anyone planning to read further than the first chapter or two.

The camp was situated on a bridge, and Cirridwen had to wonder just how wise that was, considering the last bridge she'd been on. But then, there wasn't really any way of predicting how the debris from the sky would fall. Soldiers huddled about a fire built on the stones, and Cirridwen looked over their faces as the party passed. These were tired men and women, running on fear and resignation. After all, what good was a blade or bow against the world apparently deciding to up and end. A Chantry brother was praying over stiff bodies laid out along the other side of the bridge and Cirridwen desperately hoped that somebody had warded the corpses against possession, since demons seemed to be a copper a bushel. Meanwhile, a fierce argument was roiling closer to the bridge's other end. 

“We will do no such thing!”  
“The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, it is our only chance!”

Cirridwen's face smoothed into an impassive mask, as they drew closer to the irate man speaking to Leiliana over a table. It contained a map and precious little else to keep his attention from lifting to glare at Cirridwen. As Leiliana stepped forwards to make introductions he curtly interrupted.

“I know who she is.” he sneered, drawing up to his full height while Cirridwen eyed him coolly. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.” Chancellor Roderick declared with smug triumph. It faintly amused her. He clearly had no idea just who he was threatening with the headman's axe. If her time roaming the Marches had not reached his ears...

“Order me?” Cassandra sounded utterly incredulous, followed by sharp anger. “You are a glorified clerk, a bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry,” the chancellor shot back while Cirridwen looked down at the map on the table. It showed the surrounding area, the valley, the bridge they stood on along with the temple and various accesses to it. 

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know,” Leiliana smoothly interjected, since it was starting to sound like Cassandra might just chuck Roderick over the bridge's side. 

“Justinia is dead! We must elect a new Divine, and obey her orders on the matter!” Roderick dismissed, throwing his hands up in the area with a look of unbridled disgust on his face. Cassandra's face was wrinkling up into a matching expression while Leiliana's nostrils flared. Cirridwen took one slow blink to gather herself before standing upright, thumping her shepherd's crook once on the ground to gain their attention. Her attendants fluttered and then settled on the curve of the staff.

“Everyone of authority has died, and there is nobody to give orders. None of you are in charge.” She summed up. Roderick's mouth thinned in displeasure before he ignored her, turning to Cassandra. 

“Call a retreat, Seeker, our position here is hopeless.” 

Having had a gutsfull of their bickering, _-Stay and listen to them, please.-_ Cirridwen turned to move to the priest who had been seeing to the dead. One little wisp of a spirit drifted to the table and sat there, absorbing the conversation while the rest followed her. 

“Brother,” she said softly as she approached him, and he turned to her with a mournful look under his ragged moustache. “Have the dead been warded?” 

His voice was equally soft as he glanced for listening soldiers, but those who still had the spirit for listening in were engrossed with the rising argument between the Divine's followers and paid the shabby looking woman and the brother no mind. “We are lacking in those with the ability,” he murmured, and Cirridwen nodded her understanding. His eyes tracked her attendants and she murmured to one of them. 

“Ask Solas to come here, please.” It bounced once and darted off while the brother stared after it. His eyes returned to her when she spoke. “They are well trained, they are no risk to you,” she assured him. “My companion might be able to help me ward your departed, to keep both them and us safe until we can see to them properly.” His shoulders were sagging in relief as if a cord were cut when Solas arrived, soft footed. 

“May I be of assistance?” he inquired, and Cirridwen shared her concerns with them. Agreeing with her, they both set to work and had just finished warding the dead when with a rumbling sound like thunder the Breach pulsed and expanded once more. Cirridwen sucked a whistling breath through her teeth as she clutched ineffectually at her wrist in an attempt to keep it from spreading as her injured knee buckled and her spirits caught her, propping her upright and humming in concern as she felt like her hand was trying to unmake itself. 

The brother hovered in concern, unsure if he should try to aid her or get as far away as possible, his moustache bristling in alarm while Solas put a supporting hand under her elbow. The pain faded and she straightened to find Cassandra bearing down on her. 

“You must chose. We can either go through the valley or take a mountain route to the temple.” she said without preamble, and Cirridwen raised an eyebrow at her while beckoning to the wisp she'd left on the table. It flew to her fingertips, skipping up her arm to sink into her shoulder, sharing the conversation she'd missed even as Cirridwen played for time.

“Oh, now you have a mind for my opinion?”

“You bear the key to solving this,” Cassandra said before shaking her head. “And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot decide on our own...”

“The mountain path,” Cirridwen said, and Cassandra's mouth twitched. “I am a liability on the field. If the soldiers stick close and concentrate on watching each other's backs as they push forward, they will do better.”

Cassandra nodded tightly while Leiliana spoke up. “Work together. You all know what's at stake.” 

“Leiliana, bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.” the Seeker commanded while Cirridwen prepared herself for the trek ahead. As their band passed the table and maps, Chancellor Roderick's voice seemed to taunt them. 

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker” he snarled as they marched past. Watching Cassandra's straight back and high head, Cirridwen thought on the other woman's scars. That was somebody who'd always known the consequences of what she did were hers alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Cirridwen made her way with methodical precision, letting Cassandra lead them while Solas brought up the rear. That left her next to Varric while she checked her footing with her borrowed staff at each step, the little cloud of wisps flitting about her, landing on her shoulders and Solas' crown, though they steered clear of both dwarf and Seeker.

"So uh, this little... gang of yours. They always like this? I don't want to go blowing my nose and find one in my hankie," Varric struck up conversation, possibly to take his mind off the rather generous amount of puffing he was doing. The Seeker ahead seemed unfazed and clearly focused on their path. 

"Don't worry, Varric. They're a little like children; they know full well when somebody doesn't like them," Cirridwen assured him, clutching her staff as her footing shifted a little. There was a sudden solid weight at her side and she realised the dwarf had moved to prop her up. Nodding brief thanks, she continued as if the slip hadn't happened.

"So just what kind of demons are they?" he asked, still looking a bit uncomfortable. 

"They're not demons. They're just... barely even spirits, yet. Just tiny little bits of emotional fluff and stray thoughts. They'll need to spend a lot more time around either people or the Fade if they're to grow into proper spirits yet, and even then they'd need a lot more trauma to become demons." 

The hair on the back of Varric's neck rose while his beard prickled. Trust the beard, his father had always said. Didn't mean his father actually knew nug shit about anything, though. "These are just baby spirits then, and you're what, their nanny?" he asked, incredulous.

"More like orphan matron, but close enough." She paused when they reached... ladders. Andraste's arse, nobody had said anything about ladders. From the look on Varric's face, he had similar Opinions on ladders. Cirridwen sighed as her spirits crooned and crowded around her. "Now now, keep clear, I need to be able to see my hands," she chastised and they drew back. Cassandra turned to fix her with that piercing grey gaze. 

"The tunnel is above us, and the Temple of Sacred Ashes just beyond that. Will you require help to get up the ladders?" she asked, an awkward breed of kindness in her question. 

It had not escaped Cassandra's notice that this route might provide some challenges to the most vital member of the party, and she fully prepared to haul her up the ladder thrown over her shoulder if necessary. The woman, Trevelyan, tipped her head up to look at them. For the first time Cassandra saw that she had a nasty scar running along the underside of her jaw bone, terminating in a pitted hollow dangerously close to her jugular. That did not look like a Templar wound but more the work of a rogue and she wondered just how long Trevelyan had been an apostate, and if that had happened before or after she'd left the Circle. The woman then looked back down and Cassandra was again caught by how yellow her eyes looked, more like a beast than a human. "If I give my staff over, I can get up the first one alone. We'll see how fast I can go." 

"If necessary, I can carry you up the following ones," Cassandra offered as she handed her staff off to the demons who followed her, the little green lights buoying upwards with the wood and dropping it with a clatter on the platform above. She watched as the mage grabbed her robes and yanked them upwards, teetering a little as she shoved the thick wool into her belt and revealed loose thick pants that belled before tucking into wrapped boots. Lifting up one foot, she began to climb, always leading with the same foot. Steady but slow, she kept climbing. The dwarf grumbled and followed her while Solas began to question the Seeker.

"What manner of tunnel are these? A mine?" The question was a fair one, considering this wasn't really a route as such in the arse end of nowhere. 

"An old mining complex, I believe. These mountains are full of such things, though much of their worth has long since been removed." 

"And your missing soldiers are in there?" Varric checked, following Cirridwen up the ladder at a respectable distance. 

"Along with whatever has detained them," Solas chipped in. What a regular ray of sunshine. Cirridwen levered herself onto her feet, reassuring grip on her staff as she headed for the next ladder.

"Well as long as it's not dragons," Varric huffed.

"Dragons?" Cirridwen asked, one eye brow raising. 

"Do NOT ask him about the dragons-" Cassandra interjected hopelessly.

"Had a friend who owned half a mine with some Orlesian prick. And one of the problems in that damned thing? Dragons. So we have to go clearing them out." 

"Why were dragons even in the mine?" Cirridwen asked.

"Some dragons enjoy cave systems for habitat. It may well have decided that your friend's mine made a suitable home." Solas interspersed as Cirridwen repeated the process of sending her staff up, this time following Varric who had the good grace to offer his hand to her when she reached the top of the ladder as Cassandra tapped her foot below.

"Yeah well, we should have sent the Orlesian in to deal with it, that would have gotten rid of at least one of our problems," Varric groused. 

Finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of climbing which only amounted to three ladders and two ramps, they stood at the entrance. "I thought you said this was a mine," Cirridwen commented, tapping at the laid stone walls. 

"It was," Cassandra confirmed, while Cirridwen continued taptapping her way through the high arches between the pillars. 

"It seems unusually well finished." 

"This might have been where all the administration happened," Varric supplied. "Gotta keep your paper pushers and overseers somewhere."


	5. Chapter 5

"Perhaps," Cirridwen allowed, hesitating at the door to a small room, a little fire built in the hearth while books covered shelves and a heavy desk faced the wall. She glanced about it, sharp eyes spotting letters on the desk top that made her frown a little, before continuing on. 

"A fire?" Solas noted as well, while guesturing to the lit lamp brackets. 

"Leiliana's scouts have been here; this is likely their doing." Cassandra dismissed, while they passed a terrifyingly deep pit to their left. Cirridwen had a terrible feeling that if she looked over the edge she wouldn't see the bottom. 

Instead she followed the Seeker up the stairs, until with a shout the woman slung her sheild onto her arm and hefted it. 

"Demons," Cassandra yelled and Cirridwen muttered in unison, magic pooling at the mage's finger tips. 

The demons fell easily enough, and it was a relief when they made their way to the bright cold light of day. Less of a relief when they saw what waited for them. Three bodies lying in the snow flurries on the stone steps. Cirridwen sighed as she saw them. She'd hoped there'd be at least a little less death today. Varric echoed her dismay.

"Guess we found the soldiers," he said resignedly. 

"That cannot be all of them!" Cassandra tried. 

"How many do they travel as usually?" Cirridwen asked.

"For large parties, Leiliana favours six." 

"That leaves three." 

"Then the others might be holed up somewhere ahead?" Varric asked, sounding like his hope was rallying. 

"Our priority must be the breach." Solas interjected, bring a squall across their nascent parade. "Unless it is sealed soon, noone is safe." 

"I'm leaving that to our bright-eyed friend here," Varric rejoined. Cirridwen set her jaw and thought longingly of warm fireplaces and elfroot tea. 

It did not take long to locate the remaining trio, another pulling tingle of a fade rift, and the dissonate thrum of demons trying to cope with the waking world. The first thing Cirridwen did on seeing the beleagured scouts was to slap down a series of barriers to keep them standing while she closed her third rift. 

"Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don't think we could have held out much longer," admitted the breathless leiutenant as Cassandra helped her to her feet. 

"Thank our prisoner, lieutenant," Cassandra admitted, turning to look over her shoulder at Cirridwen. "She insisted we come this way." 

Cirridwen hobbled up to run a glowing hand across the leiutenant's side where a shade's claws had bitten through the armor. "If I can keep a few more souls living past this day, it's worth it," Cirridwen said firmly as she stitched together the wound in her makeshift patient. "You're lucky, that just missed your guts." 

"The prisoner? Then you...?" 

Small spirits alighted on her companions, burbling quietly among themselves as scratches, bruises and wrenched limbs all resolved themselves. 

"Then you have my sincere gratitude," the woman managed. Just behind her helm Cirridwen coulds see she had dark eyes. 

"The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can," Cassandra instructed.

"At once," the leiutenant acknowledged before turning to her remaining companions, another scout dressed like her and a regular footman. "Quickly, let's move!" she guestured to them, the trio starting back up the hill towards their fallen comrades. 

Solas was looking between them and the path they had yet to take.

"The path ahead appears to be clear of demons as well," he observed. Cirridwen looked at him and then away. His bare toes were making her own feel even worse and she wondered, possible Dalish or no, how he wasn't worried about losing them to frostbite. 

"Let's hurry, before that changes," Cassandra directed and Cirridwen heaved the quietest sigh she had ever managed in her life at the prospect of yet more hurrying over dirt and snow. 

They had peace for all of five minutes before the dwarf started up again.

"So... holes in the Fade don't just accidentally happen, right?" 

"Tears in the Veil always have a reason. Something has to make them happen," Cirridwen informed him, before Solas took up the line of thought.

"If enough magic is brought to bear, it is possible." 

"But there are easier ways to make things explode," Varric pressed. 

"That is true." Solas allowed.

"I doubt that the explosion and the hole were both intended to happen. One caused the other as a side-effect, though I've no idea which came first." Cirridwen opined. 

"We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger is past," Cassandra interrupted, putting the kibosh on their collective mass guessing. 

And then they were upon the Temple of Sacred Ashes and Cirridwen's mind stuttered.

The last time she'd seen it, it had been all rising terraces under a sweeping vaulted ceiling, warm lit candles and statues holding fire. Now it was charred remnants and... corpses. Melted twisted corpses frozen mid scream as their lives ended in a rush of fire and noise and flying debris. Her gorge rose for a moment before she closed her eyes. This was not the time. Later, alone and safe, she could allow herself to feel this. She slotted the emotions sideways, drawing up a wall not of ice but of stone. Calm, stoic, strong. For now, she must be strong.

Observing her surroundings with detachment, she noted the green veins in the rocks around them. Black, shining fingers stabbing at the breach above them. Cirridwen laid her hand on it, even as her spirits vibrated around her in anxious worry. 

"You alright there, Bright-Eyes?" Varric asked. Cirridwen didn't look at him, gazing up the length of the stone.

"This is Fade rock," she told him. 

"I thought it might be some freaky magic shit with the whole green veins and stuff." 

"It originated in the Fade," Solas clarified, and Cirridwen turned from the rock. 

"It is a combination. This place in our world. This place in the Fade." Cirridwen bit out as she kept walking. They rounded two more corners, Cirridwen managing to steadfastly ignore the burning bodies until she came to one that was unexpectedly clothed and recognisable. She stopped so quickly that Cassandra almost bumped into her. 

"Are you alright?" Cassandra asked and Cirridwen shook her head.

"His name was Carth" she said lowly, approaching the corpse. The robes were singed but recognisable, the skin still on his face. It had been craggy in life, no more handsome then than it was in death, thinning hairline disguised with a close crop. "He was always good with his sheild. But useless at barriers." Small shadows were left on the walls beside his corpse, faint reminders. Cirridwen felt curiously empty even as some small part of her wailed distantly. "He was watching my students..."

"Well shit," muttered Varric even as Cassandra offered a low apology.

"They are beyond your helping now," Solas reminded her gently, and Cirridwen tore her eyes from her friend.

"You're here, thank the Maker!" called a faintly familiar voice, and Leiliana appeared around the corner, following close on their tail.


	6. Chapter 6

Cassandra thankfully took charge of the situation as her training warranted. "Leiliana, have your men take up positions around the temple," she advised and Leiliana nodded, directing her people to where they would have reasonable coverage.

Cirridwen looked up and up at the breach above them, feeling the way the world around her wavered, Fade and Waking trying to squash together like water and oil. Her spirits sounded almost like people, they were so present at they chattered to her ears only all that they heard and felt about them. 

_"I'm hungry, I wonder if Salie has biscuits on her,""Maker my armour itches""I wonder if there'll be people bedding down in the Temple tonight?""Urgh this is pointless, where has the Divine even gone?"_ And screaming. Sudden formless wordless distress bright in an instant and cut out just as quickly. The jarring clash of normality and horror painted over all the other countless wisps of fresh memory.

"How do I get up there?" she asked, voice clipped.

"You're not," Solas said soft and firm. "This rift was the first, and it is the key to the others." 

"So shut this one, shut the rest?" Varric asked hopefully.

"No. But this one will prevent the Breach from growing, may yet close it," Solas answered. Varric muttered something uncomplimentary about magic.

"Then we find a way down, and be careful," Cassandra said. Cirridwen leaned over the balcony to see if she could see an easy swift descent, gently shunting her spirits back across the weakened Veil. This was no place for them, and they'd pick up nothing good here. Some of Leiliana's people were spilling into the blasted crater below. 

"It looks like they've found a way," she observed and moved the way they went. They passed a few scouts with bows at the ready, who pointed out the further path to them. 

"Now is the hour of our victory" a cultured voice boomed through the air. Blue immediately flickered over the party as Cirridwen reflexively sheilded them, Varric cocking his crossbow. "Bring forth the sacrifice." 

"What are we hearing?" Cassandra asked, looking utterly confused. Oh good. It wasn't just her.

"At a guess: The person who created the Breach," Solas suggested, and Cirridwen looked over her shoulder at him. 

"It's an echo, a strong one," she added. Something was rattling at the back of her skull as if she hadn't dismissed her attendants fully, and when she looked forwards again, she really wished she hadn't. 

Blood red, angry glowing crystalline shards burst from the earth. Parts of them almost seemed to pulse like exposed angry flesh from a wound, slick and smooth. The appearance of it was bad enough, but now... 

-angryaloneafraidhungryhungerformorehungerforlifeconsumeitrememberitrememberusgiveusyourmemoryyourmindyoursoul- 

Cirridwen recoiled and even Solas stepped back, ears twitching as he shook his head slightly.

"You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker." Varric said urgently. He looked just as distressed as the two mages, though not possibly for the same reasons, being a dwarf. 

"I see it, Varric." Cassandra observed, her voice tight as well while the group skirted its angry buzzing insiduous feel. 

"But what's it _doing_ here?" Varric stressed. 

"Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it," Solas suggested, seeming to have regained what little composure he'd lost as they passed more fingers of it among acid veined black fade stone and grey mortal rubble. 

"It's evil." Varric said flatly. "Whatever you do, don't touch it." 

Cirridwen was about to agree with him when more words echoed through the air just a ripple ran up her left arm. 

"Keep the sacrifice still," came a calm order.

"Someone help me!" rang out a woman's desperate voice.

"That is Divine Justinia's voice!" Cassandra exclaimed, hand tightening reflexively on her sword hilt, foolish hope hitting her for a second that perhaps... perhaps the Divine had survived as well. 

"An echo?" Cirridwen suggested, uncertain. They reached the courtyard as the Divine's voice rang out again

"Someone help me!"

"What's going on here?" Cirridwen's voice demanded, the same echoing quality to it as the Divine's. Cirridwen's mouth was firmly shut as the others peered at her.

"That was your voice." Cassandra said wonderingly. "Most Holy called out to you. But..." 

Cirridwen looked down at her hand as it sparked to life, feeling the surging currents of magic about it a moment before the light started. It was matched by movement above them. Cassandra glared up at the familiar form of Divine Justinia, suspended before a figure made of solid smoke with burning coals for eyes. While the Divine was clearly recognisable and detailed, her assailant was difficult to describe. 

"What's going on here?" repeated the phantom of Cirridwen, hovering in mid air with a look of combative readiness on her face.

"Run while you can! Warn them!" The Divine begged, arms outstretched. 

"We have an intruder," the spectre noted with faint disinterest. "Slay the human." An odd clanking sound rattled around the courtyard before with a flash of violent green light and a shudder up Cirridwen's nerves the vision vanished. 

Cassandra rounded on Cirridwen, desperate light in her eyes as she clutched Cirridwen's arm harder than she meant to, gauntlets digging into cloth. 

"You _were_ there! Who attacked? The Divine, is she...? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?" Cassandra's voice was nigh breaking, her eyes more than a little wild as she looked to Cirrridwen for answers the mage simply didn't have. Cirridwen laid her hand atop Cassandra's arm, willing the other woman to understand. 

"I don't remember!" she stressed, hand firm. 

"Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place," Solas supplied, coming to the rescue. "This rift is not sealed, but it is closed... albeit temporarily." Cassandra finally let go of her arm and Cirridwen hid the grateful wince. Not well enough to evade detection by the dwarf however, and Varric's smile had something of sympathy, like he'd been on the wrong side of Cassandra's powerful grip before. 

"I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely," Solas continued as Cassandra bore down on him, eyes intense. "However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side." 

Cassandra's face hardened and she took up her shield, hefting it as she secured her grip on her blade. "That means demons. Stand ready!" she commanded to the wider forces arrayed about them. The archers drew and aimed for the rift, the soldiers likewise settling into ready positions. Cassandra nodded to Cirridwen fiercely and she resettled her grip on her staff, feeling the awkward weight of the Veil. It was terribly thin, save where the rift sat like a snarl in carding wool. First, she'd need to undo the scarring and expose the rift properly, before she could darn it over. Extending her hand to it, she began to release the rift before it wavered and snapped open. She felt what was there before it manifested, an ugly sensation as scaled limbs and torso materialized, claw tipped hands with only three fingers and a maw of sharpened teeth like great needles. The pride demon opened its seven eyes as it roared its triumph at gaining passage and she could feel the sudden clamour as her attendants pressed on her attention across the Veil, begging to be summoned to help her. 

"PRIDE!" Cirridwen yelled. "Don't get in close quarters with it, keep your feet planted, when it starts to spark, get AWAY." She was already twisting her fingers, getting ready to strike. 

"NOW!" Bellowed Cassandra. The archers loosed, one enterprising one getting an arrow right in one of the thing's eyes. The demon roared and scraped at it, knocking off the shaft before Cassandra crashed into its knees with all the subtlety of a charging druffalo. Ice crawled up its limbs from Solas while the soldiers closed in just behind it, striking at the demon. 

It laughed, a dreadful echoing hollow sound as sparks began to flicker over it. One soldier struck it with her blade and yelped, shaking her arm as the electricity numbed it to the shoulder. The creature's guard now up, Cassandra roared for them to wear it down. It was slow going when the demon hauled its hands backwards, lightning gathering around. Then Cirridwen struck, slapping her hand out and wrapping her will around the sparking energy. She dragged at it, sinking it down into the earth and away from her very metal clad and vulnerable allies. 

Furious that it had just been neutralised, the demon turned on her; right into a volley of bolts that struck it along the right side of its face and rendered half the eyes useless. 

"Quickly, disrupt the rift!" Cassandra suggested and Cirridwen did just that, snapping the warp of the Veil as hard as she could. The pride demon stumbled, its guard finally knocked down. It bared needle teeth in a snarl even as bolts and arrows sunk into its jaw. 

"Seeker we got a problem!" Varric yelled, leaping away from demons that ripped into reality in the wake of the pride demon, though thankfully none so powerful.  


"Cassandra! Keep Pride's attention on you! Varric, Solas, back her up. Rest of you get those lesser demons down first!" Cirridwen called, voice in a curious battle pitch that sounded out of place on a mage to Cassandra's ears. However, she couldn't fault her in this moment. Cassandra set her teeth, arm starting to ache with standing up to this behemoth. Somehow, she'd never expected demons to get quite so large. She'd almost prefer the dragon again. 

Cirridwen spotted the soldiers, leaving Cassandra to fend for herself for a short while as she kept one eye on barriers to keep as many of their people in one piece as possible while constantly interrupting and redirecting the pride demon's magical attacks. Slowly they chipped away at the demons, until only the first was left and it was in serious trouble, barely managing to keep swiping at Cassandra from where it half lay on the ground, one leg damaged beyond standing. Finally, the bloody thing fell. 

"Now! Seal the rift!" Cassandra yelled and Cirridwen planted her feet as best she could, extending her will through the mark on her palm. This... was going to be a big one, she decided as she felt around the size and shape of the massive rift. Slowly pulling it together, meeting and melding the edges.... and then release.

Down in the valley and in Haven, people stared slack jawed and afraid as a sudden burst of green light funneled upwards to the Breach, for a moment blotting out the entire sky.


	7. Chapter 7

Cassandra was among the first to pick herself up, casting about for the prisoner, Trevelyan. They needed her, even if this rift was closed there were bound to be more... There. Crumpled robe and hair falling out of its pins, Trevelyan was on the ground. Cassandra barrelled past the soldiers to crouch by Trevelyan and touch her shoulder. She didn't move. Cassandra stripped her glove off and pressed fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse. There, sluggish, but strong enough. 

"Trevelyan! Can you hear me?" She got no response, as she cautiously turned the mage over. Solas wandered over, touching gingerly at the base of his skull where he was bleeding lightly from a scrape sustained in the closing of the rift. 

"Calling on so much magic and then being struck by the backlash will have rendered her unconcious. With rest, she will recover," he advised, crouching by the other mage and running a general healing spell over her. Her colour improved but she still made no movement, hand holding only the faintest ghost of green.

"Then with this threat contained for now, we return to Haven," Cassandra decided as Leiliana approached, having finished a quick headcount of the scouts and soldiers. 

"There is a spare hut in the village that we can use. She should not be left in the general barracks," the spymaster advised. Cassandra nodded shortly. They had had enough trouble keeping the masses at Haven from murdering her in her sleep the first time. With emotions running high still, she did not want to risk it until the rest could be made aware of what had happened here. 

"So how you planning to move her, all conked out like a sack of potatoes?" Varric inquired idly, scratching at his chin. 

Cassandra shot him a withering look as she sheathed her weapon and stowed her sheild before crouching, hefting Trevelyan over her shoulder like the aforementioned sack of potatoes. Varric shrugged at her, while Solas remarked "That cannot be comfortable." 

"It is a good thing she is not awake enough to be uncomfortable then," Cassandra retorted and started off for Haven, the rest falling into line.  


* * *

Cirridwen woke up surprisingly gently. She listened, cautious before opening her eyes. A soft pop to her left. A fire. No other movement though. Warm bed. Rather comfortable. Her bum knee was propped on a small pillow, the joint eased. She could smell... liniment. Elfroot's distinctive smell. Under it was spindleweed, and ash. And chicken. A healer's home, or at the very least a sickroom. Cirridwen's eyes flicked open to study the ceiling above her. Fereldan construction. She'd not gone far, so they hadn't decided to ship her to Orlais for execution. Small lights batted at her face, spirits nuzzling close now that she was awake, settling in her hair. Tipping her head on the pillow she could see some skins hanging on the wall, a few storage barrels, no cover on the windows other than shutters, left open. Bookshelves, a cage for perhaps a chicken. A private home then, not a healer's workspace. Cirridwen flexed her muscles, starting at her toes and working her way up her body in inventory of how she felt. 

Youmustn'tletherdie.ThreedaysatmostSeeker.Isshealright?HeraldheraldheraldAndrastepreserveus. Her spirits whispered to her what they had absorbed, most of all a trembling and growing hope. An odd tension at the base of her skull into her neck, and the strange burning prickle of light sunburn on her left palm. Cirridwen took in a slow deep breath. Of course _that_ thing was still there. She should be so lucky. But she was alive, and as she sat up she was also in a nightgown. She squinted at it. Somebody must have brought it from Orlais or the Marches, the Fereldans didn't bother much with nightclothes. She shifted her feet to the floor carefully and cast about for some kind of walking aid, thinking it would be too much to hope that the Lady Seeker had remembered her infirmity. Instead her eye snagged on what was actually in the bird cage. A crested raven, the red streak down the neck terribly distinctive. Cirridwen pursed her lips at it in a frown. Those were the Divine's birds, primarily bred and used for the wider Chantry communications. The bird cocked its head and eyed her back. 

The staring competition was broken by a lass entering the room. Cirridwen's eyes flicked to the elf. On seeing Cirridwen awake, she promptly dropped the box she was carrying in shock. 

"I didn't know you were awake, I swear!" she babbled, even as Cirridwen shifted closer to the bed edge.

"Child, it's alri-" she began only to freeze as the elf folded herself over her knees in a full genuflection. 

"I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am your humble servant," she said with all the solemnity of a Nevarran master at a funeral. 

"Child, no, stand up," Cirridwen exclaimed, trying her hardest to hide her horror. She was halfway to her feet and limping to the servant as she continued.

"You are in Haven, my Lady. They say you saved us, that the Breach has stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand!" Cirridwen froze again, her hand's faint glow catching her eye. Would it even be safe for her to touch the elf with it? "It's all anyone's been able to talk about for three days." 

"Three days?" Her attendants had mentioned something to that effect. Small wisps nudged at the girl's cheek, drawing a small gasp from her. "It's alright. They can feel hope and joy. They like that, it gives them a good rolemodel." 

"I-I ah, thank you?" The girl tried, still vibrating with nervous energy before a little whisper of calm sunk itself into the collar of her vest. She sounded a little more assured when she looked up at Cirridwen. "I'm certain Lady Cassandra will want to know you've awoken. At once, she said." 

Finally Cirridwen reached out and touched her. The girl's homespun tunic was rough under her palm. "That's all well and good child, but I cannot manage to get ready alone. I will need your help," she told her in what Carth had always called her Mother Healer voice. Maker's tears, Carth. 

"Anything you need my Lady," the girl told her, hero worship shining in her eyes. 

"Then first of all, I will need some of my gear back. And for you to call me by name. I am Cirridwen." Cirridwen said firmly, turning to limp back to the bed. Standing without her brace or a support was a nightmare as she listed to the side. Then the girl was there, propping Cirridwen up. In surprise she looked down at the girl, who blushed fiercely. 

"I'm so sorry My Lady Cirridwen, I didn't want you to fall," she mumbled. Cirridwen smiled. It was likely as close as the elf would get to calling her by name. 

"Clever child. What is your name?" she asked as she eased herself to sit and her spirits resettled on the coverlets, bouncing like excitable children. 

"Uh, my name, it's Erin, my Lady." she said, eyes tracking the spirits.

"Wonderful Erin, now, do you know where my clothes might have gone?" Cirridwen asked. 

"There's a chest for you, Ma'am. It's got your clothes in, and a new outfit as well," she said, eyes cast downwards. "Shall I fetch it for you?" 

"Yes, please," Cirridwen said, and by the way Erin blinked she was clearly only used to one of those words directed at her. She turned and scuttled over to a chest under the window. Opening it, she looked inside. "Show her the supports, please." Cirridwen instructed her attendants and a small cloud invaded the chest Erin had opened. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, jerking back before cutting a sheepish glance at Cirridwen.

"They take a bit of getting used to," Cirridwen advised with an encouraging smile. "However, they're quite friendly." 

"Yes Ma'am. Sorry Ma'am." Erin replied before turning her eyes back to the chest. Pulling out two strange looking contraptions, she looked rather confused as she brought them back to Cirridwen. 

"Thank you, Erin. Let's get my knee on first, so I can at least stand. But I have to warn you of something first. Life has not been kind, and my scars are pronounced. If you can't watch, my attendants can help me instead." Erin bit her lip and her ears twitched slightly before she pressed her lips together more firmly. 

"I can help, Ma'am." Between them it took a while, Cirridwen snapping the clasps on around her mangled flesh, the bone and leather supports preventing her knee from sliding sideways in manners that knees were very much not supposed to go. Then Erin politely turned her back when Cirridwen swapped the nightgown for her shift, trying not to think about who'd taken her vest off. Examining it, she huffed slightly in annoyance. They'd undone nearly every strap and stay in order to get it off, rather than the few key parts that let her slip it off. It took a lot of shoving, some hauling on cords by Erin, and a pinched finger, but eventually Erin overcame her shyness in the quest to help and Cirridwen was finally able to stand up straight and walk a slow but steady pace for the rest of her clothes.

"M'lady?" 

"Yes?" 

"There's been new armour provided for you," Erin said, and Cirridwen turned to see the little brown head bowed over a bundle of what appeared to be cloth and armour. "It was considered more fitting." 

15 minutes later, Cirridwen stared the length of her clothing. This was not the garb of an apostate, or even a Lady. It looked like the trappings of a hero. She'd had to forgo the leggings and replace them with her own wool trousers, as they'd not fit over the brace, but she found a skirt of reasonable cleanliness and fine fabric that it didn't make her outfit look too piecemeal. 

"Well, I suppose now that I am dressed and tidy," she stated, wisps shoving the last hairpin in, "I should go find the Lady Seeker." 

"She'll be in the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor," Erin said, offering a curved staff. Cirridwen took it, wondering if it was the same crook she'd picked up earlier. In either case, it would do the job of getting her places. "Shall I run ahead and inform them you are coming?" she asked. 

"Please do," she said, and Erin hovered for a moment. "Is there something else?"

"Well, My Lady Cirridwen, I was wondering, I.. may I beg a blessing?" she asked, looking at the floor and shuffling her feet. Cirridwen blinked for a moment, then recovered. She rested her left hand over the elf's bowed head. 

"Go, and be well," she murmured, mentally nudging one of her sprites. It attached itself to her, a little bit of compassion, clinging to the hair on the back of her head. Erin bowed and thanked her, and scampered out the door as Cirridwen took a moment to compose herself, reorder things in her mind. 

Hale, whole. Better than she thought she'd be after that backlash. No aches so she must have been seen by a healer. A new set of armour made for her, so it didn't seem like she was in danger of an execution anymore. 

But she also had strange elves dropping to their knees at the sight of her. Being asked for blessings. And the whispers of awe her attendants had garnered. Herald. Herald and Andraste. And three days for legends to spread. 

Chin high, Cirridwen opened the door.


	8. Chapter 8

He wanted to see. And unfortunately despite being put into sword training, doing damn good at it, and NOT crumpling under a shield bash yesterday, his growth had yet to kick in. Being painfully shorter, he had to make do with what he could hear. A sudden rustle up front announced that she had exited the cabin. 

"That's her, that's the Herald of Andraste!" 

"I told you." 

"She's the one who stopped the Breach getting any bigger." 

All Jim could see was the backs of people's heads and the top of the Herald's... shepherd's crook. Was it seriously her or were people just mistaken? Giving up on getting a view from here, he cut back across some of the cottage rears, hauling himself up on the wall. Unfortunately by the time he turned to look the Herald had already turned around the large Mabari statues on the stairs and he still couldn't see her, just the rapturous expressions on the faces of those who had. He grumbled to himself, rubbing gloved hands over what some of the other recruits called 'the most pathetic nugfluff this side of the Frostbacks' and what he insisted was a promising beard. He dropped down the shorter side of the wall into the mid-level of Haven, hearing an old mason's grouching. 

"I heard she was supposed to close it entirely."

"Still more than anyone else has done," his wife rebuked him sharply. "We'd all be taken by demons otherwise." 

Rolling his eyes, Jim skirted around them and up the stairs after the Herald. It was then that he realised that she was walking rather slowly, and he was in danger of overtaking her. Suddenly bashful, he kept his eyes forwards and marched straight past her, making a beeline for the Chantry. Slipping behind two Chantry sisters, he finally stopped and turned to get a good look at their apparently Andraste given saviour. 

She wasn't very tall. Impressively outfitted, dark hair pinned back neatly. She walked with the kind of calm grace that he'd seen on Sister Nightengale, and he wondered what it said that she reminded him of the frankly terrifying Left Hand. Not as fluid though, more delicate rather than stalking. And it was indeed a shepherd's crook she carried rather than a mage's staff. But the most astounding thing was the plethora of mage lights gathered about her. 

"Chancellor Roderick says the Chantry wants nothing to do with us," murmured one of the sisters, the younger one, in front of him. That stole his attention from the Herald. How could- the woman had just saved them, all of them. And the Chantry had a problem with that? How could they, when she'd actually closed the Breach, like the miracle they'd all prayed for. 

"That isn't Chancellor Roderick's decision, sister," admonished the elder one, and he couldn't lie about feeling somewhat reassured by that. After all, men didn't hold power in the Chantry, not really. It'd have to come from the Divine, and they didn't really have one anymore. The Herald glided to the Chantry door and vanished inside, and he ran out of credible excuses to follow her.

* * *

Cirridwen glided down the Chantry's centre line, steps surprisingly quiet. It meant she heard the argument long before she set foot in. 

"Have you gone completely mad?" demanded a man's voice, nasal with impatience. Chancellor Roderick. Cirridwen inhaled slowly. Of course it would be too much to hope that a chunk of Fade rock had landed on him. "She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine." Cirridwen flicked through a book of devotions, raising an eyebrow to herself. That would take nearly a year. 

"I do not believe she is guilty," the Lady Seeker declared, and Cirridwen's fingers let the book fall shut. Now that? Was a surprise.

"The prisoner failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky and for all you know she intended it that way. That is not for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry!"

Cirridwen approached the doors, leaning one hand on it silently, listening on two planes. 

Windingwoundedhurt,lookingforblameforboiltolanceanddrain. 

"My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours."

_Steelbrightandhoned,eachdisastertemperingmusthavefaith._

Cirridwen opened the door. At the intrusion Chancellor Roderick's chin flicked up and Cirridwen was acutely aware of the two Templars, one on either side of the doorway, winged helmets stealing their humanity. 

"Chain her. I want her prepared for travel to the capital to face trial," he ordered briskly. Cirridwen was just gathering herself for a fight when the Seeker's voice cut in. 

"Disregard that, and leave us." The creaking of plate-mail beside her betrayed the Templars' indecision, before they passed out the door. Cirridwen stepped forward to allow them space to leave, the door thudding shut behind her. The hairs on her nape stood up as Leiliana stared at her with calculating eyes, weighing each iota of her worth. It was clear that the person in power in this room was very much not the chancellor, and Cirridwen allowed the smallest of smiles at the thought. 

He knew it too, stalking around the table to growl at the taller of the women. "You walk a dangerous line, Seeker." 

"The Breach is stable. But it is still a threat and I will not ignore it," Cassandra bit back. She had a point. While it was all well and good to play games with authority, the whole thing paled in comparison to a hole in reality. Cirridwen leaned drily on her staff. 

"Ah yes. That Breach. The one that's almost killed me. Twice." 

"And yet you live. How convenient for you." he sneered. 

"Yes. Very convenient, developing from comfortably ignored to the Chantry's most wanted." 

"Have a care, Chancellor. The Breach is not the only threat we face." Steel may have rested in Cirridwen's voice, but Leiliana's was silverite, prettier and far more dangerous. 

"Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live." Blue eyes were sharp on Chancellor Roderick's face even as he turned nigh purple with the implications. 

"I am a suspect?" he spluttered, hands throwing wide in demonstration of how ludicrous he considered the proposal. 

"You, and many others." Leiliana mentioned, gaze steady. 

"I heard the voices at the Temple. The Divine called to her for help." Cassandra argued, hands subtly clenching at her sides. 

"So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand, all a coincidence?" 

"Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour." Cassandra declared, eyes shifting to Cirridwen and something prickled over her scalp. 

FaithshiningfaithhecaresforustheMakerloveshischildrenMaker 

"I do seem to recall never seeing any sign of the Maker," Cirridwen cut in, wanting to head that notion off before it could stick. Given what happened to the last herald of the Maker, she didn't want to take her chances. 

"I have not forgotten," Cassandra said, a stern little frown burrowing between her brows. "No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed, when we needed it." 

Cirridwen leaned on the table as her own frown set in. She was just opening her mouth to argue when Leiliana slid in smoothly. 

"The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it," she reminded Cirridwen who closed her eyes against the notion. 

"That is not for you to decide!" shouted Chancellor Roderick and when Cirridwen cracked an eye open to glare at him, he slammed his hands on the table for emphasis. When Cassandra reached behind her, for a moment Cirridwen thought she was going to grant her hearts desire and stab the self important prick. Instead she slammed a heavy book on the table that set up its own dust cloud and Cirridwen's eyes stuck to it. 

Her attendants vibrated softly around her, unmarked by Cassandra and Chancellor Roderick, though Leiliana's sharp eyes didn't miss a thing. Shudders were running up and down Cirridwen's spine at the heavy touch of the thing. 

Faithinquirybeliefpoweroldancientfreshwritten 

"You know what this is?" Cassandra demanded, pointed one gauntlet at it. "It is a writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn." Her voice was gaining in strength as she continued, and Cirridwen straightened, taking a step back from the table, nostrils flared. "We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order." She advanced on Roderick who was backing up, perhaps remembering for the first time that this was a woman in armour who possessed the physical ability to trounce him and was fast running out of the patience necessary to restrain her from doing so. Her finger poked him so hard in the chest that each punctuation left a slight dent in the cloth. "With. Or. Without. Your. Approval." 

Not a complete idiot, Chancellor Roderick could see when to call a retreat. He strode out of the room, and when he caught Cirridwen's eye gave her the most venom filled glare she had received in a very long time. Her attendants clustered close about her hair and shoulders as she deliberately let her gaze skate over him like he was furniture. 

Thus she saw Cassandra rubbing her palm over the back of her head, a self soothing gesture. Clearly, the woman knew she had a temper, and knew the importance of controlling such a thing, enough to be rueful when she lost it. 

"This is the Divine's directive," Leiliana's smooth voice took over the silence of the three women. "Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who would stand against the chaos." Her eyes flicked up to watch the other two, her hand trailing on the book's cover. "We aren't ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support." 

"But we have no choice," Cassandra responded. "We must act now. With you at our side." Her eyes bored into Cirridwen, beseeching and commanding in the same breath. Cirridwen's chin lifted, showing the nasty scar on her jaw as she tapped her crook on the stone flags thoughtfully. 

"And what, precisely, is the Inquisition of old?" she asked, voice mild. After all, the Inquisition had quite the history, if she recalled rightly, and 'of old' was a relative term. 

"It preceded the Chantry," Leiliana explained, tapping a gauntlet's finger on the book. "People who banded together to restore order in a world gone mad." 

"We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more." Cassandra stressed, eyes bright and focused on Cirridwen. 

"You seem to already have that covered," Cirridwen said, tapping her crook for emphasis as she gestured to the wider room and the people beyond it. 

Cassandra couldn't help it, a choked laugh snorting out of her mouth. "Is THAT what you see?" 

"The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine, and then it will wait for her direction," Leiliana clarified. 

"That would take anywhere up to two years, with most of the powerhouses gone at the Conclave," Cirridwen said, eyebrow cocked up. 

"And we do not have two years to wait. With so many of them dead... no, we are on our own. Perhaps forever." Cirridwen could feel the faint touch of grief vibrating up through the Seeker. 

"If you're truly trying to restore order, to repair things..." Cirridwen allowed slowly, chin tilting up at the taller woman. 

"Help us fix this before it's too late," Cassandra entreated, hand extended. Cirridwen looked at her for a long moment, weighing her as some of her attendants flitted to ghost along Cassandra's fingers. The Seeker's nostrils flared slightly, but her hand and gaze remained steady, firm. 

"Then we shall," Cirridwen answered, putting her hand in Cassandra's. 

"I will have Ambassador Montilyet draw up the missives," Leiliana said as she turned to leave. The door opened before she reached it and in walked a man with blond hair and the typical broad though not particularly tall build of a Fereldan. He also seemed to be wearing a mantle of fur over his armour, giving him the appearance of being larger than he was. Cirridwen's eyes slid over him. Military bearing, eyes tightening slightly on her as he saw her attendants, ghostly as they hung about her. Templar. The overlying tunic and mantle too distinct for one of the rank and file. A commander then. 

"Commander Cullen," Leiliana acknowledged, dipping her chin to him before slipping around him. Cirridwen's entire spine stiffened enough that a twinging complaint of nerve pain shot down her right side and leg. 

Leiliana ghosted out while Cullen's face tightened in a frown. 

"Seeker Cassandra." he acknowledged curtly. 

"Commander Cullen will be our military head," Cassandra responded, moving forwards to shake his hand. Cirridwen circled around the table to take a closer look at the Divine's writ. "Cullen, this is Lady Cirridwen Trevelyan, the one who closed the Breach." 

Cirridwen looked up imperiously at her name, acknowledging Cullen's introduction by dipping her chin down to a regular height. 

"Is there a reason you carry a host of demons?" Cullen asked, hand on sword hilt. Cirridwen braced herself for a preemptive smite while her attendants shimmered about her in agitation. 

"They are not demons," Cassandra responded. "Lady Trevelyan assures me they are nascent spirits. As of yet, they are no threat to anybody." 

"Yet." Cullen echoed, eyes hard and flinty. "And when they do?" Cirridwen stood straighter as her tone cooled to tepid disinterest. 

"They will not be directed to my allies. Unless of course," Cirridwen found an abandoned chair and sat in it with all the air of a queen on her throne. "My allies are in trouble, in which case they shall aid them." 

"You cannot expect to control so many, especially with the state of the Veil!" Cullen protested. "Seeker, this is unwise. I understand that she is necessary, but surely we cannot allow completely unrestrained mages at this time!" 

"I am well familiar with your experiences, Ser Rutherford," Cirridwen interrupted, calm as a school teacher with an unruly pupil. "I heard a great deal of you as Knight Captain." There, a minute flinch, a twitch of the scar on his lip. "I reap what I sow, and I do not sow rage, despair or pride in my charges." 

"Regardless, we are here now, and we have work to do," Cassandra cut in. 

"Leiliana mentioned missives. I might have some of my own to send, for aid and for reassurance," Cirridwen said. "The last thing we need is anyone rushing anywhere in a fright. Can you provide me with paper and ink?" 

The writing materials were shortly procured and Cirridwen sat down to write, quick neat strokes while a small wisp hung off the end of her pen. Cullen not so subtly attempted to read what she was writing and deepened the perpetual wrinkles on his face when he realised he didn't recognise the script. 

"Is this code? What are you writing?" He asked suspiciously while Cassandra, who blessedly hadn't left the room, looked up from her own missives. 

"It is short hand. We do not all have the luxury of reams of paper to write on," Cirridwen said shortly, trying to avoid the throb of anxiety coming from Cullen, the way he kept clenching and relaxing his hand on his pommel. "And I was not aware that I had entered another Circle." 

A flush stole up Cullen's cheeks while Cassandra made a disgusted sounding grunt. "If there is anything troublesome in those letters, Cullen, it will be found out." she remarked. Well, if Cirridwen didn't suspect that any missives sent would first pass under the Nightengale's eyes she certainly did now. Provided, of course, that the bard could make anything of it. 

_Alive. Ostwick Circle. Bird. No Araval needed. At Haven. Fire._

She smudged ink on her thumb and pressed it to the parchment before allowing it to dry, rubbing the ink on her thumb dry between her fingers. The note was sealed and sent before nightfall, winging north on raven wings. 

* * *

A notice went up on the Chantry door, Chancellor Roderick's face one of derision and frustrated disgust. Cassandra appeared in her element, glowing with purpose. And yet through it all, the bustle and the scramble, Cirridwen couldn't help a strong sense of unease. Not that of something wrong, per se. But as wisps toyed with loose strands of hair and adoring eyes gazed on her, she felt the small shift of a butterfly's wing. 

It was enough to make her feel in dire need of a walk. As nobody had asked for her crook back yet, she presumed it was hers to keep. She found that once she'd left the Chantry it was surprisingly... easy to move about. Though anything but quiet. Her attendants vibrated with the baited anticipation, confusion and curiousity. Nobody met her eyes, but the moment she appeared to be studying the thatch of a roof she could see people staring from the corner of her eyes, hear not so subtle discussions. 

Being properly hailed by a nosy writer was an immense relief. 

"So, now that Cassandra's out of earshot, how you holding up?" Varric asked. Cirridwen cocked an eyebrow at him. His eyes were bright, his face lively. But there was kindness etched into the corners of his mouth, just as sorrow dogged his eyes. "I mean, you go from most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day." 

Cirridwen snorted. "I'm far too old to be dallying," she told him primly. "If I don't get moving quickly, I shan't accomplish a thing. Today the armies of the faithful, tomorrow nugs." 

"Nugs? Now that IS impressive," Varric joked, and Cirridwen sighed, passing a hand over her brow. 

"It makes as much sense as the rest of this day has." 

"I hear ya. You know, we've been watching the Breach, demons and Maker-knows-what falling out of it, for days now." Cirridwen settled onto a log laid at a distance by the fire, stretching one leg straight out and tucking the other close. "Bad for morale was an understatement. I can't believe anyone was in there and lived," he continued, sitting next to her and wise eyes watching, tracking over her face and hair. Her wisps. She smiled. 

"You can touch them if you like," she offered, and he flinched minutely. 

"Ah, no thanks. I'll keep my hands over here, firmly in reality. Not much of an author if I lose them or they get possessed. My editor would kill me if my style changed." He tried to make light of it, leaning back and grinning. "So, uh, what's the deal with those guys anyway?" 

"These?" Cirridwen rolled her hand through the little cloud of half a dozen spirits, watching them tumble over her fingers and then bump back into them. One squeaked, a tiny little sound not unlike a kitten. "They're... a little complex. Or a little too simple. They're friends of mine, and I look after them. Try to influence their growth properly." 

"You can _do_ that? I thought spirits were a little more... set in their ways than that." He asked, looking distinctly uneasy as one spirit lost its grip on object collision and rolled through Cirridwen's palm. It sputtered a little on reappearing in thin air and regained its glow. 

"Ones that have developed enough to have an ideal to hold to, yes. Spirits of, say, rage, or hope, or despair. Justice." A flash of recognition. "Those are set and fluid. If they lose their ideal, they cease to exist. They're no longer themselves. So they cling to them very strongly. These ones... they're barely spirits, just wisps. If I try to feed them good things, or at least neutral, like discipline, compassion, kindness, calm, then they start looking for more of it by themselves." Cirridwen's expression darkened momentarily, before she wiped it away. "It's too easy to find rage, greed, envy. And so it's too easy for those spirits to develop." 

"That is... fascinating but also creepy." Varric commented, and she smiled a little to herself. "Doesn't seem easy to do, either." 

"Mm. Speaking of uneasy, why do you remain? Cassandra said you were free to go, no? So why not return home?" Cirridwen asked, blowing on her wisps and sending them fluttering before looking to Varric. His eyes were thoughtful as he considered his answer. 

"Look, a lot of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there's a hole in the sky. Even I can't walk away and leave that to sort itself out," he said, looking a little more serious than she had yet seen him. 

"I still have difficulty seeing it as real," Cirridwen admitted, looking at the embers and their gentle popping. 

"Well, if this is the Maker winding us up, he'd better have one hell of a punchline." 

"It's probably us." Cirridwen rolled her eyes heavily. 

"Hey..." concernblackcurlsneverdidknowwhentoleaveworrychild "You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I've written enough tragedies to see where this one's going. Heroes are everywhere," flashofredonnosegoldcoineyesmournfulbluecracks "I've seen that. But the hole in the sky? This is beyond heroes. We're going to need a miracle." 

"Unfortunately, miracles usually have a price," Cirridwen said with a small smile. "You can ask Andraste about that." 


	9. Chapter 9

Cirridwen tried to go in search of food, but fled the tavern at the overwhelming press of rumour and worry, anxiety and hope. Having left her attendants outside the door, she accepted a roll stuffed with cheese and cold meat that the tavern owner had thrust on her before talking to a Tranquil about research requests. Cirridwen slipped on out, feeling a small bit of relief that at least some of the Tranquil were here and safe. She'd managed to seize a number of them from Kirkwall when things went tits up, and had traveled about tracking down and bringing in lost Tranquil. It was too dangerous to leave them alone out in the world, but she knew that many Circle's Tranquil population had gone missing in the wake of the Rebellion. Some dead. Some taken with the mages. Some remaining with the Templars. But too many unaccounted for. 

Trying not to think about the injustice of it all, she was chewing on her roll and going to investigate the faint smell of potion making when she ran into the elf, Solas. 

"Ah. The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all," he remarked, but thankfully there was a ghost of amusement in his eyes. Cirridwen made a small dying noise of frustration in the back of her throat. 

"All I need is a shining steed," she groused. 

"I would have suggested a griffin, but sadly, they're extinct. Joke as you will, posturing is necessary." he advised. Cirridwen tilted her head at him. Carefully neutral expression, dip of the head, hands habitually clasped behind him. Small, unobtrusive, non-combative. There was more than one direction to posture in. Solas turned to smoothly stroll a few steps. 

"I have journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten." He turned to watch her face. Guaging her reaction. "Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen." 

The theory was not unfamiliar to Cirridwen and made plenty of sense, but one aspect of it caught her ear. 

"You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins? Are not predators and others a concern?" she asked. He finally turned to face her properly.

"I _do_ set wards," he mentioned. "And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live." 

Cirridwen leaned on her staff and hummed thoughtfully. "I've never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade, at least not consciously and with a return trip. That's rather extraordinary." She eyed him with a new appreciation for what he knew. 

"Thank you. It's not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning." Cirridwen made a small sound of amusement. "The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything." 

"We mortals are simple creatures," Cirridwen remarked, noticing with interest a frisson of unease. "We rely on the things we expect. Fire is hot, lightning shocks. The Fade is what we make it, and that is... difficult to grasp. Having somebody who has a mind for it would be invaluable." 

"I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed." Something about the tone in his voice as he looked away over the top of the tavern and the snow covered roofs of Haven made her look at him a little more closely. A slight tightening around the eyes, and a certain careful relaxation around the jaws.

"You are not free to go then?" 

"I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion." he replied archly. "Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution." 

"Cassandra trusts you. I doubt any would be allowed to imprison you without her explicit say so, and I doubt that would be forthcoming." she said. And somewhere, she believed it. Cassandra, even when she considered Cirridwen her sole suspect, had still at least treated her with dignity for the most part. She also seemed capable of admitting error, an admirable trait in a member of the Chantry. 

"Thank you. I appreciate the thought," Solas allowed, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach." 

"It'll have to be one or the other. If we need both, I doubt the Maker Himself could make it happen," Cirridwen muttered, slowly flexing her knee. 

"If your limbs pain you, the apothecary may have something to ease them," Solas advised. He swept one arm to indicated the trio of huts behind them, in particular the one with the large wooden statues flanking the door. Cirridwen dipped her head in thanks and made her way over, rapping firmly on the door before opening it.


	10. Chapter 10

The interior assaulted her nose with a medley of scents ranging from sweet to pungent. An irritable looking man in robes glanced over his shoulder before shuffling a stack of papers together and tapping them sharply on the crowded table in front of him to settle them into order. 

"Back again are you? What's it this time?" he demanded gruffly.

"Have we met before? I'm afraid I cannot recall it if we have." Cirridwen said mildly. 

"I'd be surprised if you did. You weren't particularly coherent," he allowed, before dropping the sheaf of papers into a shallow box and shoving it under the table. He grabbed up some bundles of nondescript greenery and stumped to a table-press, dumping them in. "Someone had to patch you up after you staggered out of Maker-knows-where, though, so you're welcome." Cirridwen cocked her head at him in new respect, even as her wisps nudged at her with whispering echoes of the man in front of her's crotchety voice demanding some guards before his patient was killed in her sleep. 

"I didn't realize. Thank you." 

"Yeah, well." he said gracelessly, starting to spin the press and squeeze the juice of the leaves and stems in it. "You can pay me back by fixing the world." After a moment he then left the press alone and spun to face her, grudgingly continuing the conversation in a manner reminiscent of irritated offspring trying to remember their manners when dealing with far flung relations. "Name's Adan. I'm in charge of keeping our little band here stocked with potions and elixirs." He made a small abortive gesture with one hand. "Not that Seeker Pentaghast seems to care whether we've got the supplies to actually _do_ that." 

Cirridwen leaned her hip against the desk, looking around the place with fresh eyes and noting the empty places on the shelves, the haphazard stacking of baskets clearly showing their empty state. "How _are_ your people holding up?" 

"We're fine as far as raw labour goes. You've more important things to do than tend to me." 

"I beg to differ. You tended me, correct?" A brisk nod. "Then you'll likely be aware of a few old injuries that will put me in severe need of liniment, sooner rather than later." His shoulders shifted uneasily. 

"Yeah, I saw. Not sure how you got up to the temple with them, especially the way your knee is. Or isn't." Sharp clever eyes raked over her form and he turned back to the press. "So that... happen before or after the whole Rebellion business?" 

"I was sixteen." Cirridwen said simply, and Adan's shoulders jerked up around his ears as a small curse eked out of him. 

"Can't say I blame you. Any of you." He swiped at his mustache with an irritated thumb. "I only wish I'd been able to find Master Taigen's notes. Old bastard was working on something special. He died at the Conclave, and his notes weren't here. Been too busy dealing with the wounded to look for them. We might be able to sort something out for you though. Some Antivan salts, good dose of elfroot, use some embrium. It'd be better with some arbour blessing and a vandal aria base, but we can't have everything." 

Cirridwen's lips twitched up in a smile. "Thank you. This is precisely why we need to bother with you." 

Leaving with a few precious vials of elfroot potion and a small pot of a less potent liniment, she went in search of Somebody In Charge Of Supplies. Such a person would doubtlessly be central, but she didn't have the energy to tramp all over Haven looking for them. She inquired of a Chantry sister who pointed her to a table laden with paperwork out where the Quartermaster could take advantage of the daylight, without need of wasting precious candles. Drawing level with the officer, she made a small polite hem and tapped her crook on the ground. Pale eyes swept up and over her before falling back to lists on lists of logistics and demands, from the looks of the disparate handwriting. 

"All Circle mages who want to join the Inquisition are to speak to Cassandra or Cullen," she said in a bored tone of voice. Familiarity by first name. "And Apostates too, I suppose." Her eyes flicked up again when Cirridwen didn't move and settled on the small cloud of blue. "Oh, OH you're her." The soldier straightened up, ginger brows making a effort to stop frowning. "Threnn, Inquisition quartermaster. I'm doing what I can to supply this mess." Her eyes tracked Cirridwen's spirits as they drifted about lazily. _Fondnessexasperationfamiliaritygoodtobeincampagain_ "If you find what I need to fill one of my requisitions, I'd appreciate you bringing it in." Cirridwen raised her eyebrows a little in curiosity. 

"How exactly does one become Quartermaster to the Inquisition?" 

"I served Ferelden under Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir. Best commanding officer this world has ever seen." Defiant pride shone in the woman's eyes. "After they all turned on him at Denerim, though, there wasn't much use for people who held that opinion. King Alistair offered my services to the Inquisition, probably to get rid of me." A bitter tinge to her voice. 

"I was... familiar with Teyrn Mac Tir. My mother is Ferelden by birth, and took some time to calm down about the whole thing. It was conniptions of joy and anger by turns." Cirridwen remarked. "Your loyalty to the man you served is admirable, Quartermaster." The tightness at the corner of Threnn's eyes eased and her weight shifted on her feet a little with the compliment. 

"Thank you. A lot of people seem to think they know what happened as Ostagar..." a tiny flinch. _DarkspawneverywheresomanythekingisdowntheredieforafoolswarcalltheretreatwecanretrenchelsewheresaveFerelden._ "But I was there. Teyrn Loghain never betrayed his king. If he'd brought the reinforcements, darkspawn would have just killed everyone. He did what he had to do to save our country... and we betrayed him." _bitterangeroldhurtbetrayalhowcouldtheymyteyrnmykingmycommander_ Cirridwen tilted her head at Threnn for a long moment and then reached out a hand to rest on her bicep, at the outer curl of her pauldrens. 

"He was given an ugly choice. Betray his king and kin, or betray his soldiers and his country at large. He made his choice. Himself for his country. It was an honourable trade." Threnn gave a small, grateful smile before flushing and shifting her weight uneasily. Cirridwen allowed her hand to return to her staff. 

"I... apologize," Threnn started. "Sister Leliana told me I shouldn't talk about this." 

"I shall leave it if you do," Cirridwen granted, and leaned over the table beside them, trying to gauge if Threnn was trying to run the entire Inquisition's logistics by herself. "What exactly are your duties?" 

"I make sure the Inquisition soldiers have iron in their hands and food in their bellies. Both are important. People expect heroes to go marching out and fighting demons all day, but they forget they need latrines like everybody else." 

"Speaking of latrines and other necessities," Cirridwen broached. "I've heard that there's difficulties with medical supplies in particular." 

"Too right," Threnn scoffed. "We're not a real army, not yet, and we don't have coin from anyone's coffers. There's been some tributes, offerings, but that's mostly in the way of arms and bodies to wield them. It's easy to get people to give over four swords when they've got five, harder to persuade them to part with bundles of elfroot instead, since that's something that gets used up." 

"It's also the middle of winter, plenty of younger siblings sick of being holed up with their families in one room farmhouses. We'd better hope we can keep a hold of them when the lure of spring and being smothered in dirt instead of demon ichor surfaces. Our supply issues with victuals and herbage might ease by then, but then we won't have the soldiers to feed." 

"Have you done this before, Your Worship?" Threnn asked suspiciously as Cirridwen squinted at a sheaf of supplies for the stables. 600 pounds of oats. Very little hay. They must have at most a dozen horses, and even then with the lack of hay... that didn't bode well for their numbers of noble-born knights who usually had two horses apiece. No support from noble coffers, and the Chantry support would have been withdrawn. Unless this Josephine Leiliana had mentioned was a miracle worker, there'd be no large sums. It would be entirely dependent on grass roots support, which would in turn rely on the chancy states of opinion in the common people, who were nothing if not notoriously easy to lead. A spirit nudged her cheek and she looked up at Threnn. 

"I've done my share of managing straggling numbers on chicken-shadow soup." Threnn's mouth twisted at the mention of a notorious Chantry meal given to the poor. It was supposed to have chicken in it. Word was that they hung a chicken in the window so its shadow fell into the pot. 

"First concern is food and medicine; armies march on their stomachs and their blisters, Your Worship." 

"Cirridwen, or Lady Treveylan if you insist on formality. At least that title is something I have a right to. Now, do you have a stool I could borrow? I'd like to have a look at these, see what I can remember having access to." 

"You come with a Breach-closing hand, dozens of demons" 

"Spirits." 

"uh, spirits, _and_ contacts for supplies? We really did get lucky."


	11. Chapter 11

Having asked Threnn for directions, Cirridwen had toddled down to the stables, passing a truly odious little man running a shop by the front gates and finding the smithy and the man who had made her armour. Harritt had been thankfully in good graces about her forgoing the legs for a skirt, and she had confirmed her suspicions of the sorry state of their horses. Mostly coursers, with a handful of empty stalls. That would need some changing if the Inquisition were to stand solid.

It was also interesting to hear the Templar leftovers talk. Cirridwen mentally ear-marked one, Lysette, as somebody to talk to later with her mentions of the Templars failing the mages. Every sympathetic ear was a good one, though her friend Mattrin was a bit of a waste. Unfortunately that meant that by the time she shuffled back to the hut that had been designated hers for the time being, exhaustion was catching up to her. Being knocked unconscious was not the same as sleeping. Finding that some thoughtful soul had found the remnants of her effects was a relief. Sitting on the bed, she hitched up her skirts until she finally reached her brace and eased it off, rubbing the liniment Adan had given her into the joint and hissing through her teeth. Some time around when the sky was losing its light, Erin reappeared. Cirridwen was thankful for her help as she bustled about, closing the shutters and tacking up cloth against the winter chill and building up the fire. 

"Are you hungry, M'lady Cirridwen?" Erin asked, seemingly mindful of her earlier request to use names. "I can fetch food for you, if you want dinner?" Cirridwen sat up a little on the bed. 

"Ah, yes actually. One moment," she added when Erin looked fit to fly out the door at the first inkling of a direction. She reached for her pocket and pulled out a ha'silver coin. Erin's eyes grew wide at it, likely never having seen such a large sum in her life. 

"Something hot, some kind of bread, and a drink, preferably light. And the same for you. If there's any left over, pocket it for yourself," Cirridwen instructed and Erin's eyes grew comically ever-larger. "And to make sure you don't slip and do yourself an injury..." she waved over one of her sprites and gestured to Erin. "Watch over her, please." Erin bowed and saw herself out, leaving Cirridwen alone in the hut. She sighed for a moment, surveying the room. Typical bloody Ferelden construction. There was a breeze coming in all directions through the door, and while Erin had tacked up the window covers and closed the shutters, there were still draughts. It was no wonder the Fereldens were a stout and hardy lot; their buildings ensured only the strong survived. Not to mention the thin walls. Anybody who professed surprise that Fereldens would let their dogs sleep on the bed had evidently never spent a winter here. 

"Help me move these chairs, please," Cirridwen asked. A few of the spirits took larger forms, sprouting ghostly arms and heads as they maneuvered the two heavy wooden chairs to sit at a comfortable distance from the fire. Cirridwen snagged the side table, only to discover it was rather heavier than she expected. She debated the self satisfaction of dragging it to rest between the two chairs herself, and the desire to sleep a little more comfortably that night. In the end, the eventual promise of sleep won out and the spirits moved it. Settling into the chair with a cushion, the comforter off the bed and a small lidded basket under her heels, she settled in to wait for Erin, expanding her awareness. Crisp cold. The raven in the carrier missed its flock, but kept a clever eye on her because Red Plumage had put him here, and they could always trust her. Perhaps this one, the slow shiny one, would give him bread even though he'd been fed earlier in the day. Outside the air was crisp and chill. Riding the line of the Veil, Cirridwen could feel that it still felt more like cobwebs than silk, and she resolved to check that later. Instead she reached out, looking for certain combinations of impressions. _Soursaltsweetloudmusiclaughtertearssorefeetflirtationwillhewon'tshe._ That was the tavern. And there was the shimmering dot of the spirit she'd sent with Erin. She touched it gently, not quite enough to unsettle it even as she could hear the gentle pop of the fire in front of her. Thrumming nerves from Erin. Surprise. An offer of help, _warmfacescratchyvoiceunclelikeweaponoilandpaperandinkandwords,offerhelpcheekysmilefriend_. Cirridwen kept pace with them as they moved through the village and then returned to herself fully as she sat up a bit more in her chair. 

"I'm afraid you'll need to find a third seat," she said evenly as the door swung open and a gust of cold air came from the rough vestibule. "And thank you, Varric."

"Oh! Begging your pardon, Ma'am, but I couldn't carry it all at once, I'm sorry." 

"I offered and you needed the help, nothing to apologize for," Varric reassured, kicking the door shut behind him as he made his way to the table by Cirridwen's elbow and setting the three tankards he carried down. "Sending runners already, your worship?" he asked as he fished a whole loaf from under his arm and started slicing it with his belt-knife. 

"Unfortunately, wisps don't do a very good job at remembering what they're sent for, and I doubted anyone would appreciate an older spirit," Cirridwen said in amusement. "Also, I've taken my knee brace off for the evening." 

"Is there anything else you need, Ma'am?" Erin asked, bobbing nervously at Cirridwen's elbow but just without striking distance. Cirridwen made the effort to smile gently at her. 

"Just sit, Erin, and have your dinner. You still need feeding." Cirridwen reached for one of the covered bowls, lifting the clay lid off it to reveal pottage. Mostly pearl barley, some strips of perhaps salt beef or pork, cabbage. Typical winter fare. She sipped at it and got some hints of turnip and parsnip as well. "This is perfect, thank you Erin. And thank you for having the kindness to help her, Varric." 

Varric settled himself in the spare chair while Erin hunkered down on a crate closer to the fire, toasting her toes on the hearth while inhaling her soup and bread. "It wasn't entirely altruism, Bright-Eyes. Felt like picking your brains about a few things. What do you think of our setup the Seeker's going?" 

Cirridwen glanced at Erin. While the elf seemed to have taken a determined shine to her in less than a full day she also had no idea as to how precisely trustworthy she was, or how much she wanted to say in front of her. Varric seemed to read her caution, sitting back comfortably in his chair as if to say 'I followed her here didn't I?'. 

Cirridwen bought herself time with a couple mouthfuls of barley. 

"It's impressive for what it is, but woefully inadequate for what she wants to achieve." 

"Hey, she's a Seeker, they're used to making things happen in shitty circumstances," Varric said easily, dipping his bread. 

"She's also used to operating with Chantry sanction and Chantry resources. I'm not sure how much room she has for doubting hearts and tight purse strings. Not everyone runs on sheer determination and faith," Cirridwen pointed out. 

"So that's what you're seeing, huh? Doubting hearts and tight purses?" 

"What did you say earlier Varric? 'Bad for morale was an understatement'."

Varric winced and then recovered with an easy smile, each as theatrical as the other. "C'mon Bright-Eyes, that was then and this is now. We got ourselves a figurehead now." 

"You've got yourself a patsy, you mean," Cirridwen responded with a huff. "A very convenient mage-shaped whipping post if everything goes wrong. The only way this could get better for somebody to blame would be if I were an elf and Dalish." 

Erin made a small choking noise by the fire and Varric let out a slow whistle. "You're really bitter about that, huh?" 

Cirridwen laughed a little as she set aside her empty bowl. "I'm quite certain I'm not the hero of your new book, Varric. I've read your materials. I'm not romantic. I'm bitter, broken, and generally ought to have been dead before this grand adventure happened. There's good reason I'm the first atheist Trevelyan in nine ages." Erin made a small disconsolate noise and both mage and dwarf looked at her. Her eyes were huge and glistening and she looked genuinely upset, staring into her empty bowl and clutching it with white knuckled hands.

"Ah shit," Varric muttered. Cirridwen was forcibly reminded that for many, she was still a dream they needed. 

"Come now child, come here." She took the elf's hands and chaffed them, the skin cold between her fingers. "It's not as bad as all that. I'm only mortal, and the Maker may yet prove me wrong. For all you and I know, He may have deliberately chosen me just because I'm contrary and refuse to believe in him. He does work in strange ways, you know." 

"Do you really not believe in the Maker?" Erin asked, and Varric chuffed into his ale. "Even with the Mark, and the Breach and everything?" 

"If there's anything to change a world view, reality warping would do it," Varric volunteered. 

"Varric's not entirely wrong. And I do believe in the Maker, Erin. I promise you that. The only difference is I disagree on some points with the Chantry, but that's to be expected. We're only people after all. Now that's enough, chin up." 

It took some more coaxing, but finally Erin bucked up enough to collect the empty bowls and backed out, a small bobbing wisp hanging about her to light the way. Once she'd left, Cirridwen sighed and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. "Wonderful. One day as Herald and I've already made an elf cry." 

"Yeah, and here I was betting on a week," Varric said, easily dibsing the third tankard that Erin hadn't touched. 

"You didn't come here to discuss bets, Varric." Cirridwen remarked mildly, beckoning some of her sprites to her. "My workbox, please." 

"Really? You don't think I came here for your fine, exalted company?" Varric asked even as his eyes tracked the spirits nervously. He had a good poker face, but his nerves strummed just audibly on the air to Cirridwen's senses. 

"My first suspicion would be mining material for a new book. My second would be that you're here with a story you want to tell." 

"Well, if anybody thought this Breach business scrambled your head, there's the answer," Varric grumbled. "Can't a guy have any mystique anymore?" 

Cirridwen accepted her workbox from her attendants and took out a smooth wooden darning egg and a sorry looking sock, taking up a skein of yarn that was more or less the same thickness and undyed. "Now now, I'm sure the contents of... say, your next novel, are still a mystery to me. Thank you dears. I won't be needing you for a while, go home." One by one small lights winked out of existence, each coming up to brush lightly against her. Her cheek, her shoulder, her knuckles. One cheeky sprite booped her nose and vanished with a little flourish. Now that the only light came from the bright fireplace and a candle on the table between them, Varric relaxed immensely, reclining back in his chair as if it wasn't slightly too big for him. 

"It's the red lyrium." Cirridwen made a humming noise. 

"It did seem to upset you at the temple." 

"My brother Bartrand and I sort of discovered red lyrium during an expedition in the Deep Roads," Varric admitted ruefully and gold eyes flicked up to fix him for a moment before dropping back to wool loops. "We located an ancient thaig, so old it barely looked dwarven. There was this idol there, made of it." 

"Golden rule Varric, if it's an idol and older than Trade, do not touch it. It will inevitably explode your life somehow."

"Now see, where were you a decade ago when we could have done with that tidbit?" Varric asked. "Maybe you could have told Bartrand not to bring it back to the surface. But he did, and well, everything's gone downhill from there." 

"What exactly IS it?" her needle caught the firelight as it eased in and out. "Just another kind of lyrium? It felt.... ill. Putrid." 

"The red stuff is lyrium like a dragon is a lizard," Varric scoffed tiredly. "It's not just a different colour. It has a whole host of weirdness all its own." 

"Wonderful. The Maker's laughing." 

"I've written every Mining Caste house in Orzammar. No one's seen this stuff before or knows where it came from." 

"Something tells me you have an idea of what makes red lyrium so odd."

"Regular lyrium can mess you up pretty badly, but you have to ingest it for that to happen," Varric continued. "Red lyrium messes with your mind when you're just near the stuff. You hear singing, get violent, paranoid." 

"It's hungry," Cirridwen said abruptly. "It wants... something. I'm not sure if we have it, per se, but it will absolutely consume us in an attempt to get it. It... less sings and more chants." 

"Shit Bright-eyes, you hear it that clearly? Don't take this the wrong way, but you might want to get that checked out." Varric said, getting a little wide-eyed. 

"Not quite. I've spent a lot of time learning to listen closely, but it also means I know what I'm hearing. And that? Pure madness and lies. Nothing it could say to me would be honest, and nothing good." Cirridwen shook her head in quiet vehemence. 

"Glad you can see that much. It does.... creepy shit. Makes things float. Brings statues to life." 

"Statues to life? What kind of life are we talking, Varric?" Cirridwen asked sharply. 

"They started moving, Bright-eyes. Ever been to Kirkwall? There's giant Tevinter statues there, tried to squash us like bugs." 

"So just moving? They didn't seem alive, or intelligent, just mechanical?" Cirridwen pressed.

"Just mechanical. Why, did you think I meant a statue made into a person?" Varric asked. 

"With the years I've had? It wouldn't surprise me at this point." 

"No, thank the Maker. It doesn't do that. But it did turn Kirkwall's Knight-Commander into a lyrium statue. Everyone's been kept a hundred paces from it ever since." 

"But she's still there?" 

"Yeah. Last I heard the guild was looking at getting it removed or contained, but there's still the question of how we can even store something like that, or safely destroy it." 

"If you only took one small idol from the thaig, then how did so much end up at the Temple of Sacred Ashes," Cirridwen mused, holding up her sock and tweaking it to check her patch job. 

"So far as I knew, only one small piece made it to the surface, and that was destroyed. And the location of the thaig it came from is a secret," Varric admitted.

"That leaves us a handful of options. The thaig is not as secret as you thought it was. That there was always red lyrium, or the potential for it, below the temple as Solas suggested. Or..." Cirridwen paused.

"Or?"

"Or Meredith was not the only new red lyrium created." Cirridwen said. 

"Sheeit," Varric whistled through his teeth. "I really, REALLY hope that isn't true. If it is, we're in a lot of trouble." Cirridwen pursed her lips. 

"I can try and see what I can find on it." 

"You think you could find something that the Mining Caste doesn't?" Varric asked, keen interest sparking in his eyes. 

"Perhaps. We do run in very different circles, and while it may not have traveled much through the Deep Roads, some may well have made its way to the surface in other places and at other times. I'll put out feelers and see what I get back," Cirridwen assured him. She sighed and put aside her now finished sock, tucking darning egg, needle and yarn back into her workbox and placing it on the table. 

It didn't take long after that for Varric to return to the tavern while Cirridwen set about making her way to bed, stripping down to her shift and fighting with her pillow and cushion in an attempt to prop herself for sleep. After all, tomorrow would be another day.


	12. Chapter 12

Haven rippled around her, green touching and grasping at the area. Cirridwen moved with strong and easy grace as she easily explored it. Shimmering hints of dreamers, the mages at Haven much more clear and easy to pinpoint than the regular people. Equally easy were the spirits. Wisps of Hope, Compassion, Strength all mobbed her for attention, Faith, Valour and even a touch of Justice a little more sedate, cautious of how she could influence them at these nascent stages of their growth. She gently touched some of them, carefully feeding them memories from the day. Some of them held to some memories, while the rest took others. Valour and Justice liked Lysette, while Compassion touched on the memory of one of the smiths; _Feels silly to mourn a horse, with all the people we've lit pyres for._ She pushed Compassion to try to find the smith, give him some comfort, feeding it the words of his workmate; _Well, like you said, a good horse can make all the difference._ Seeing off a handful of her attendants to watch over people she'd come across that day, she bounded gracefully up the stairs before taking a higher leap and alighting on the roof of the Chantry, surveying the rest of Haven and the dreams of its occupants. With her own unfamiliarity with the place and the conflicting dreamers of the area, Haven rippled softly. The heights of the walls kept changing to match people's perspective of them, doors slipped sideways, and one persistent statue that Cirridwen knew didn't stand in the present Haven insisted on standing in the middle of where the supply tents were now. And less friendly spirits prowling the area, feeding on the fears of the sleeping and probing at the weakened Veil. Well, she couldn't have -that-. Cirridwen frowned a little at them, and waved to the stronger, more combative of her spirits. The ones with enough of a sense of self to have created their own forms. She had a scant handful of them, spirits who had been with her for a very long time.

"See what you can do for the dreamers. Keep them sheltered if you can," she asked of them and they assented, flitting out of sight before Cirridwen felt a small itch under her left ear. She glanced to the side to see what was there, eyes narrowing. Something. Something large, as such things went in the Fade, and something **Old**. Something that did not want to be seen as nothing met her eyes. Closing them, she reached out with her awareness, bringing her will to bear in search of who else was in this particular corner of the Fade. Regular people. Mages. Templars who always tasted a little strange, their lyrium intake affecting their presence in the Fade. Spirits and demons from wisps to those with substance drawn by the weakness of the Veil and the tight-wound emotions of the living and the agony of the dead. And.... nothing. It seemed that whatever had grazed her attention did not wish communication as she met with nothing but ringing silence. She hummed thoughtfully to herself. That would warrant keeping an eye on. But first... she listened for the nastiest thing in the area and found it, a demon within the Fade Chantry. Dropping to the ground in a rustle of skirts the Chantry doors swung open for her and she strode within, pushing open one of the side doors. The interior was not what she expected. With the high lofty ceilings and the intricately blocked in and filled windows, it was undeniably a Circle. Bodies lay everywhere, while somebody crouched whimpering on the ground, folded over his own knees and forehead against the ground. Stooped over him was an elven woman in Circle robes befitting an apprentice who cooed to the trembling man that refused to look at her. 

"Keep away! You're not her, it's not real!" his voice broke on a sob and she barely recognized Cullen's voice.

"Cullen, don't you recognise me? I've come to rescue you," she crooned, soft gentle hands curling under his jaw while he shook his head, helpless. Cirridwen looked about the room. Dead Templars barely two feet from Cullen, a shimmering approximation of a barrier keeping him from the rest of the room while dead mages littered the rest of the room.

Kinloch. Cullen's deepest fear. She had heard of it, of course. Near Annulments always got about regardless of which circle one was in, or even if you were an apostate. Luckily the Hero of Ferelden had returned just in time to stop the massacre becoming a complete loss, salvaging the handful of surviving Mages who then fought the Blight. The demon with him plastered herself across his back, one hand still under his chin as she pressed soft kisses to just under his ear and he sobbed, great heaving ugly things. Cirridwen frowned. Why would a desire demon prey on somebody so frightened, unless.... of course. She reached her hand out towards the pair. 

"CULLEN. WAKE." She commanded, her will and power heavy in her voice. Cullen vanished, likely kicking awake in his bed at Haven in a cold sweat, possibly after soiling his bed. It didn't particularly matter to her. What did matter was this thing in what she considered to be her territory. The demon rounded on her, swiftly shedding the skin of an elf with silver-grey hair and a snub nose, exploding upwards into not a figure with horns and tail, tantalizing gold jewelry, but instead a faceless being that hovered, insect limbs clicking in an uncoordinated jumble. 

"FOOL!" it shrieked with a sound like nails over glass. "HE WAS MINE TO FEAST ON!"

Cirridwen raised an implacable eyebrow at the fear demon. "No." Her voice was clear and simple, before suddenly the demon began to crunch in on itself, wailing. Cirridwen remained impassive, barely moving as she exerted her will on it without batting an eyelash. Skin-crawling cracks echoed through the air like the deep ice of the far southern glaciers cracking in summer, as the fear demon continued to wail. It scrunched smaller and smaller, its voice becoming progressively weaker before it winked out of existence, completely crushed. The room around her warped and wobbled back into an approximation of the interior of the Chantry. Satisfied with that job, Cirriwen left to do a circuit of the rest of Haven. If Cullen were to have any further nightmares, they'd be the product of his own mind. But to attract such a nasty piece of work...

It was concerning. Cirridwen knew well enough that magic was nowhere near a requisite for possession, and a man who felt as deeply as Cullen apparently did would draw spirits regardless of his magical ability. Hopped up on lyrium as he likely was, he'd be even more vulnerable. And somehow he'd been deemed fit for the Inquisition's commander. A severely damaged ex-Templar who would have difficulty in professionalism and would still be yoked by the Chantry's lyrium chain. Wonderful. It would take less than a week for him to crawl back to Val Royeaux if he were denied his lyrium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for everyone who thought Cirridwen was faultless. She has a lot of old resentment against Templars, and ones like Cullen "I didn't actively beat/rape/murder anyone so therefore I am faultless" Rutherford. They'll eventually jostle to a working understanding, I promise. I am both very fond of Cullen and also very convinced he needs a boot up the arse.


	13. Chapter 13

When Cirridwen's eyes first opened that morning, her first thought was 'fuck everything'. This was primarily because her thigh muscles had cramped during the night and trying to move them resulted in shooting pains up into her hip. She grit her teeth and reached down to try and knead it, still fuzzy from sleep. The muscles locked up and she tried not to yowl as she pushed herself to sit up, hoping for a better angle at which to try to ease the pain. The cramps merely shifted to her back and she flopped down onto the bed again, taking slow breaths as she frowned at the ceiling. Unfortunately sitting up had been enough to lose a great deal of the heat from her blankets and now her mattress of straw was cool against her back. 

Cirridwen continued to breathe until the urge to roar in annoyance passed, and she turned her head to the fire place. Unfortunately, there was not much fuel on the andirons, the fire carefully banked to last the night. So she couldn't merely cheat and light the fire from her bed to warm the room before she attempted to rise. Cirridwen was just debating being lazy and asking for help when the door rattled and then opened. In popped Erin, stamping her feet in the early morning light to clear her shoes of slush and bumping the door closed with her hip as she carried a covered tray. 

“Good morning, Erin,” Cirridwen observed. 

“Good morning, M'lady Cirridwen,” Erin responded, setting the tray down on the desk. “Would you like the fire tended?” 

“Yes please,“ Cirridwen said, turning her head to watch the little elf in the dim light of the shuttered room. Erin bustled about, clearly familiar with cleaning out a hearth and replacing the logs over the nascent coals. They caught easily enough and she swung the pot crane with its kettle over the fire to begin heating water. 

“I've brought breakfast for you, Ma'am. Where would you prefer to take it?” Erin asked, and Cirridwen sat up slowly, putting her back to the headboard and propping her knee. 

“Here if you please. And could you fetch my shawl from the chest?” An easy enough request, as she had only the one, and it was soon draped about her shoulders as Erin continued to tidy the place up while the kettle heated.

“You're very practised at this,” Cirridwen remarked as she ate her breakfast. Erin bobbed a little curtsey from where she was sweeping the entry way. 

“I was trained up as a house maid, and then an attendant, Ma'am.” She wavered a little, before forging onward. “My previous employer was up at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Inquisition's been very kind to me.” She didn't say any more and Cirridwen didn't need her spirits to think that Erin wasn't terribly cut up about that.

It took a while to get up and moving, but Erin's help it was considerably easier and soon enough Cirridwen was tramping up to the Chantry. Apparently there were things that needed to be discussed, and the Lady Seeker insisted that Cirridwen be present. In anticipation, Cirridwen had a bevy of small wisps riding the pins in her hair as she accompanied Cassandra to the meeting room at the rear of the Chantry. She noted the Seeker glancing none too surreptitiously at her hand, and she raised an eyebrow at her.

“Does it trouble you?” Cassandra asked.

“Other than that it exists and is on my hand? No, it doesn't pain me.” Cirridwen allowed.

“What's important is that your mark is now stable, as is the Breach,” Cassandra pronounced. “You've given us time, and Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed – provided that the mark has more power.”

“It would need to be the same level of power that opened the Breach, would it not?” Cirridwen asked.

“Yes,” Cassandra opened the door for them both, ushering them into the warm meeting room. “And that will not be easy to come by.”

“Clearly you must have something in mind,” Cirridwen prodded as they entered and the door shut behind them.

“We do.”

There were three other people in the room. Leiliana, looking immaculate and implacable. Cullen looking stoic with no trace of his nightmares visible. And a third woman she didn’t recognise. 

“May I present Commander Cullen, he is the leader of the Inquisition’s forces,” Cassandra said, glossing over their prior meeting. From the imperious tilt of Cirridwen’s chin and the tightening of Cullen’s eyes, neither of them had forgotten. 

“Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through,” Cullen said, a heavy undercurrent of blame riding under his words. Cirridwen blinked slowly. He blamed her for that, did he? That she took the mountain road rather than the valley? Well… tough. He wasn’t currently the Maker’s plaything. 

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat,” Cassandra continued. The lady in question dipped her head, candlelight from her writer’s board gleaming across her dark hair. 

“I’ve heard much. It is a pleasure to meet you at last,” Lady Montilyet said smoothly. There was a certain honesty to her face, an enduring undercurrent of desire to please and excel. 

“Likewise. I hear tell that you are excellent at what you do,” Cirridwen responded smoothly. 

“You are too kind, please, take a seat,” Lady Montilyet gestured to a chair that had not been there last time, a high back with a cushion in the seat and another set into the backrest, a small bolster at the rear. Well, somebody clearly knew how to butter her up! Cirridwen couldn’t bring herself to mind as she sat in the chair with a graceful nod.

Smooth and easy, Leiliana stepped up to make herself known. 

“My position here involves a degree of-“ 

“She is our spymaster,” Cassandra said flatly, with a tone that screamed her disapproval of the need for one. Cirridwen’s smile was a lot less polite and vastly more genuine. 

“Excellent.” 

“Yes, tactfully put, Cassandra.” Leiliana chided slightly as she folded her arms behind her. 

“Terribly impressive titles, and rather interesting people. Which begs the question; why am –I– here?” 

“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good,” Cassandra said. 

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” Leiliana continued. “And given your links, we will need your help.” Cirridwen's lips quirked for a moment in a smile. That was one way of putting it. 

“And I still disagree. The templars could serve just as well.” Cullen interjected, frown still heavy on his brow and hands both resting on his pommel. Behind him Lady Montilyet took quick neat notes. 

“We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark-” Cassandra tried.

“Might destroy us all. Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so-” 

“Pure speculation,” Leiliana cut in, and Cirridwen wondered just how many times somebody would be interrupted in this room. 

“I was a templar, I know what they're capable of,” Cullen said urgently, and Cirridwen felt an uneasy shiver rise along her spine. 

At that moment Lady Montilyet sailed into the escalating conversation with ease. “Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition - and you, specifically.” 

Cirridwen sighed softly, eyes closed for a moment as she squared her shoulders. “That didn't take long. What, two ravens, maybe three? You'd think they'd be more busy arguing over who's the next Divine.” 

“Some are calling you – a mage – the “Herald of Andraste.” That frightens the Chantry.” Cassandra snorted her disgust at Lady Montilyet's words. “The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harbouring you. It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question.” 

Cirridwen moved forwards in her seat, tapping her fingers on the maps covering the table. “Just how am -I- the “Herald of Andraste”? That would require a modicum of belief in the notion.” 

“People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing.” Cassandra supplied, while Leiliana unhelpfully took up the thread.

“Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading.” 

“Which we have not,” Cassandra said disapprovingly.

“The point is,” Leiliana stressed, “everyone is talking about you.” 

“It's quite the title, isn't it? How do you feel about that?” Cullen asked and Cirridwen eyed him carefully to weigh his meaning. A touch of sarcasm. But an honest question underneath it. 

“About as delighted with it as the Chantry is.” Cirridwen said dismissively. “It's overblown and taking liberties with reality.”  
“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you're that sign.” Leiliana pointed out. 

“I'm familiar with being a figurehead, as you likely know Lady Nightingale. However that was something I chose. This is very much not.” 

“To others, you are also a symbol of everything that's gone wrong,” Lady Montilyet gently reminded the room. Cirridwen only just restrained the urge to quip 'again, nothing new.'. 

“They aren't more concerned about the Breach? The real threat?” Cirridwen demanded, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Typically bloody Chantry more concerned with form than function.” 

“They do know it's a threat. They just don't think -we- can stop it.” Cullen elaborated, frustration colouring his voice. Her spirits whispered to her. Cullen and Cassandra both vibrated with pent up energy. They were people of action and the lack of cohesive direction to move in bothered them. Leiliana was calmer but no less active, fully fixated on mages with a recurring image flash of a small elf, silver hair flying and a knife's edge smile. It was startlingly similar to the woman whose likeness had appeared in Cullen's nightmare the previous night and Cirridwen made a mental note to pursue that notion later.

“The Chantry is telling everyone you'll make it worse.” Lady Josephine seemed the most even keeled, her mind spooling along different lines of action, trailing back from their end goal. And then from the swirling eddies of Leiliana's mind came one bright image. An older woman, brown face heavily lined and hands comforting. 

“There is something you can do,” she opened, and Cirridwen turned to watch her keenly. 

“A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.” 

“Then perhaps we ought to see what she has to say, and what it would cost us,” Cirridwen mused. 

“You will find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe,” Leiliana advised. “It would be perhaps a week's journey.” 

“Allowing for my infirmity?” Cirridwen asked, tapping her staff on the ground in illustration. 

“Yes,” Leiliana said, implacable. 

“Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition's influence while you are there,” Cullen added, clearly not trusting her dedication to the cause. 

“We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you're better suited than anyone to recruit them,” Lady Montilyet elaborated. 

“You realise that I will inevitably end up with those who are loyal to me over the Inquisition, correct?” Cirridwen asked. “A Fade-touched mage and the Inquisition are not very... equivalent.”

“Regardless, we will continue to think of other options,” Cassandra said. “I won't leave this all to the Herald.” 

Cirridwen made a somewhat sour face at that. Even the Seeker was calling her that. Brilliant.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today on Intensely Long Delays: 
> 
> My health took a bit of a dive and with it my writing fizz, but things are on the mend now and I'm still very keen on keeping this fic going.

It had been a slow week. While the autumn rains had made a mess of the roads, the cold of winter had mostly firmed the mud. They travelled with bedrolls and packs, though Cirridwen got lucky. Somebody somewhere had found her a mule, a sweet tempered though cheeky creature with a sorrel coat named Bun. She was a vast improvement on Cirridwen's prior mount, which had been a foul tempered old donkey by the name of Asshole. She couldn't quite bring herself to miss him since his immolation along with the rest of the temple. At present she was draped forwards, stretching her spine as she rested her forehead on Bun's mane, smelling mule and leather and liniment. While riding was infinitely easier than walking and the padding on Bun's back generous, it did not change the fact that her knee would ache viciously at the end of the day and she would inevitably need a mouthful of precious elfroot potion in order to sleep. Thankfully they were below the snow line and into the Hinterlands by now, and they should sooner rather than later come up to the Inquisition camp Cassandra had briefed her on. Just then, Varric nudged her and Solas spoke.

“It seems we have found the camp.” 

Cirridwen sat up to look, and saw a shapely dwarf with pretty eyes coming towards them, raising one hand in greeting.

“Scout Harding,” Cassandra acknowledged.

“Lady Seeker, Herald,” Scout Harding replied, dipping her head to each in turn. Cirridwen held up a hand.

“Cirridwen, if you please. Titles do not sit easy with me.” A lie, but a small one in the face of calling her the Maker's chosen. “What is the situation out here?”

“We came to secure horses from Redcliffe's old horsemaster,” Scout Harding said, falling into step with Bun. “I grew up here, and people always said that Dennet's herds were the strongest and fastest this side of the Frostbacks.” They ascended to a small rise and Scout Harding nodded at the small tidy camp set up. “But with the mage-templar fighting getting worse, we couldn't get to Dennet. Maker only knows if he's even still alive.” 

“He'd better be. I did not spend a week travelling here to find necessary people dead,” Cirridwen grumbled as a little spirit popped out of the air beside her to nudge her cheek. Scout Harding almost tripped over a tent wire staring at it. “Ah, thank you dear. See if you can find him. Dennet, Horsemaster. I've not much more for you, I'm afraid.” The spirit bumped her nose and then floated past Harding's ear. The dwarf turned to stare at it and try to follow its path.

“Maker, I'd heard, but I thought they were just telling tales,” she breathed, before the wisp wobbled and set off to the west. “Hey, where's it going?”

“Hopefully to find Dennet. Clearly he's somewhere that way,” Cirridwen observed. “Now have we anything else going?” 

“Corporal Vale and our men are doing what they can to help protect the people, but they won't be able to hold out very long,” Harding advised. “You'd better get moving, if you want to find him intact.” Cirridwen nodded and squared her shoulders.

“Sure you're up for it, Bright-eyes?” Varric asked. “I'm not au-fait with all this tramping around nonsense, but it's been a while.” Cirridwen sighed softly then turned to him with a nod.

“It's unfortunately necessary. It's taken us a week to get this far; we don't have many spare days.”

“Corporal Vale is down the hill, in the Crossroads,” Scout Harding directed. Cirridwen nodded and slowly got off Bun, breathing long and slow out of her nose as she felt muscles protest in her legs and back. 

“Then down the hill we go,” she said. 

They heard the fighting before they saw it, Cassandra leaping to the fore with the force of years of habit, shield ready and angled down. 

“Rogue mages!” She called.

“I see just as many templars, Seeker,” Solas returned as frost wound about his fingers. 

“Soldiers of the Inquisition, protecting the refugees!” Cirridwen overrode, and smacked her crook on the ground. “Varric, find high ground, use your reach. Aim for the Templars, they won’t be expecting projectiles. Solas, strike the mages. Cassandra, draw fire, I will cover you,” she rattled out, and Varric promptly scuttled off to somewhere with a good view, his back to a still standing barn while Cassandra charged forward with a battle cry. 

She smacked hard into a Templar and sent him bowling over, just as icicles erupted from the ground to skewer a mage taking aim at the back of Cassandra’s head. Refugees both ragged and well heeled huddled together in a mob as a pair of harried Inquisition scouts herded them back, yelling for them to keep their heads down and remain calm. Cirridwen flicked out a hand to them, a cloud of little spirits of calm fluttering to the refugees to keep them from hurting themselves while her eyes remained on Cassandra and Solas, keeping them well shielded. 

An arrow shattered on Solas’ barrier while flames melted over Cassandra without so much as turning her pink. Bolts hitting a Templar solidly in the gap between breastplate and pauldron as he lifted his sword overhead heralded Varric’s entrenchment somewhere. Then one managed to get a lucky strike in against Cassandra’s knee on her sword side. The armor was enough to keep her knee whole but she still went down, before a sudden choking ripple of a smite washed over the area. Solas looked rather green while Cirridwen wobbled, shields flickering out. Solas managed to be swift enough at defending himself with his staff while he waited out the smite, but Cirridwen did not have such backup as an archer took aim at her. Varric dropped them, but the swearing indicated he needed to reload Bianca as the last spare Templar came after Cirridwen. She narrowed her eyes at him and bared her teeth in a snarl. Think you can command reality over me? She thought. Bringing her will to bear, her hand shot up to point at him, knuckles white around her staff as his eyes suddenly rolled up, collapsing at her feet in a clatter of plate. Stepping around the dead Templar, she bellowed “Enough.” With a surging wash of strength she shoved aside the remains of the smite, its caster dead. 

Magic returning, Solas polished off the last Templar while Bianca kissed one last mage. The place now silent, Cirridwen panting slightly, the Inquisition soldiers approached. 

“Ser?” One of them asked as Cassandra hefted herself to her feet with a grunt. 

“Corporal Vale? The Herald and I need to speak to him,” she said, eyes casting about for Varric. He was ambling towards them, Bianca still cradled in capable hands. 

“Alright, so you're not half bad at this, Bright-eyes,” Varric admitted, throwing a cheeky smile and wink at Cassandra. “Still here, Seeker.” 

Cassandra ugh'd at him and turned to a man who arrived looking somewhat frazzled. Cirridwen ran her eyes over him. He had a singe pattern on his shoulder armour, and a fresh looking dent in his helm, but was otherwise whole. Competent then. 

“Corporal Vale reporting, Lady Seeker,” he said, tapping off a crisp salute. His eyes slid over the others and then settled on Cirridwen, dipping his chin. 

“Lady Cirridwen,” she supplied, getting in before anyone else could. “Any serious injuries?” 

“A handful. They're currently being overseen by Mother Giselle,” he informed them. 

“Excellent, just the person we needed to see,” Cirridwen said. Corporal Vale directed them up a slope to hastily laid out cots and a wagon with silent figures unmoving. “See what you can do and find,” Cirridwen murmured to Solas and Varric while she and Cassandra approached the one woman in Chantry robes.

She was older, brown face lined with age and care. Her accent was strongly Orlesian as she knelt by a frightened scout's bed, soothing him into allowing a mage-healer to tend him. Cirridwen watched and judged. From her age, she would have likely been ordained just as Divine Justinia and her more kindly views were coming into power. She also seemed to have at least an understanding of practicality, and the desire to get things done to common people's benefit. The soldier submitted to her advise, even if his eyes were still tight as the mage took over, soothing hands lit blue over him. 

“Mother Giselle?” Cirridwen hailed. 

“I am,” she said, rising with enviable grace. “And you must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste.” 

“Cirridwen, please.” Mother Giselle nodded, walking alongside Cirridwen and gesturing for the mage to walk with her. 

“I know of the Chantry's denouncement, and I am familiar with those behind,” she began, warm face serious as they drew even with where Cassandra waited. “I won't lie to you. Some of them are grandstanding, hoping to improve their chances of becoming the next Divine.” 

“Nothing but political rubbish then,” Cassandra growled.

“Some are simply terrified,” Mother Giselle corrected. “So many good people senselessly taken from us. Fear makes us desperate, but hopefully not beyond reason.” 

“That sounds as if you have an idea for reason,” Cirridwen noted.

“Go to them. Prove to the remaining clerics that you are not a demon to be feared.” 

“How can they think her a demon? Surely they cannot think that the Inquisition would allow it,” Cassandra asked. 

“They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.” Giselle advised. Cirridwen gave her a long, long look. 

“And you do not think that might make things worse?”

“Because you are a mage?” the mother asked. 

“That too,” Cirridwen responded wryly. “I didn't get my scars falling over on a wet floor.” 

“Let me put it this way: you needn't convince them all. You just need some of them to -doubt-.” Mother Giselle persuaded. Cirridwen tilted her head at the Chantrywoman in an invitation to continue. “Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them, and you receive the time you need.” 

“It would be the Bannorn against the Blight all over again,” Cirridwen mused, “A simple enough plan.” 

“I honestly don't know if you've been touched by fate or sent to help us... but I hope,” Giselle told her, wise eyes watching closely. “Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call, as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that will deliver us, or destroy us.”

“That is precisely what worries me,” Cirridwen told her. “Delivery takes different forms, and has different destinations.” Something about her words seemed to pass muster, Giselle's light brown eyes brightening for a moment. 

“I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana the names of those in the Chantry who would be amenable to a gathering.” 

“It may take some time to eventuate. There is business here that I desperately need to sort out, and I am not the swiftest traveller,” Cirridwen warned. 

“Anything that can help would be worthwhile. It is not much, but I will do whatever I can.”


	15. Chapter 15

Cirridwen sipped hot tea that somebody had made and was ladling out when they regrouped. 

“What do we have?” she asked them. Varric picked at his gloves, feigning disinterest. 

“Well, people are hungry and cold, but no surprises there. Hunter says there's plenty of ram meat up in the hills, but nobody's willing to hunt with all this fighting going on. Corporal Whittle says the same thing about cloth for blankets and coats. He's certain that there's caches around, but nobody's willing to risk ferreting them out if it means a fireball to the face.” 

“If we come across any, we can mark them for the Inquisition to collect and distribute,” Cirridwen decided. 

“I spoke with a family missing its son,” Solas said, hands still clasped meekly behind his back. “The mother is dying of asthma, though the father did not call it that. I have eased her as much as I could, but she requires a potion her son makes. He has apparently joined a cult up in the hills, which has a rift near by. It would perhaps be worth looking in to.” 

“Well, we did need more power, and closing rifts does give that.”

“There is also somebody here at the Crossroads that you could speak to,” Cassandra offered. “She is Enchanter Ellendra. She is not with the rebels, but does not wish to join the Inquisition. If you speak to her as a fellow mage, she may be persuaded.” Cirridwen looked at Cassandra for a few long moments. 

“I'll speak to Enchanter Ellendra. See if you can get a better set of directions to where this cult is, and we'll see about getting up there.” 

***************************************************

Enchanter Ellendra stood straightbacked, staring into a brazier before one of the old Alamarri statues that still dotted most of Ferelden. As Cirridwen approached, she looked back over one shoulder at her, arms folded firmly. 

“I have heard stories about you, Herald of Andraste,” she said, looking back to the flames. “I am Enchanter Ellendra. I hope you find a way to end this foolish war.” 

“That is generally my purpose in life, these days,” Cirridwen answered, coming to stand by the brazier as well. “You do not seem to be with the rebels, or the refugees. Are you alone?” 

“I'll have no part with the rebels. They are fools, running about thinking that because they can control magic that they can control the world.” Ellendra spat, brow furrowing. “They're a disgrace to us all.” 

“And the refugees?” Cirridwen asked gently. 

Ellendra paused, lips and brow twisting in a complex dance. Little voices nudged at Cirridwen's ears. _HelpthemEllendrathisiswhatyoutrainedforsootheandhealandhelp,TemplarswhyIjustwantedtohelpletthembenonononNO_  
“I tried to heal them. When the Templars saw me, they attacked. People died in that battle. I won't endanger any others,” she said firmly. Cirridwen nodded.

“I know. But we need healers. Helpers. And we have the means to protect people as well. Every arm we can find to defend them counts, as does every healer we can find to treat them. Consider it, Ellendra. I'm working to build a home for mages as people, not just prisoners or dangers.” Cirridwen told her, before leaving to let her digest the notion. 

“We will always be dangers, Herald,” Ellendra said to her back. 

“As will that brazier in front of you,” Cirridwen responded. “Food for thought.” 

********************************************************************

In order to make the trip up to the fort, Cirridwen ended up saddled on Bun again, though this time side-saddle, Varric leading the placid animal while she sat and looked over the terrain, trusting Cassandra to watch the road while she played with her spirits. They fed her little echoes of the mood back in the crossroads, whispers of fear and hunger mostly, cold. Worry both nebulous and peircing. Thankfully, much of it would be incidentally solved if the Inquisition could gain a foothold here. Cassandra's soft voice interrupted her. 

“Rams, ahead” she murmured, quieter than Cirridwen was used to hearing from her. She swivelled her head to look and see. Three of the creatures, all heads down while they chewed. 

“Varric, think you can get one from here? Solas?” 

“I could, but what'll we do with them, Bright-eyes? We're a bit far from the camp to go back and tell them, or cart em back ourselves,” Varric murmured, carefully aiming Bianca and judging the distance. 

“Would you use your attendants?” Solas enquired, fingering his staff as he appeared to be making his own estimates of range and accuracy. 

“Yes. If I send one back with a message, they'd know where to co-” Cirridwen was interrupted when one of the rams dropped, the other two starting to bolt. Cirridwen immediately shot out a hand, small bolts of ice hissing through the air to strike one in the throat and the other in the hind quarters. One of Varric's bolts hit the crippled one behind the ear as somebody yelled over the ridge. 

“Oi, you want a piece of this? This land is ours, mage scum!” yelled a templar.

“Doubt it,” Varric muttered. 

Two caches of fabric, another ram, a knot of mages and another of bandits, and a forward camp earmarked by one very worried scout later, they had passed Winterwatch Tower and were approaching Lornan's Exile. Moving up a path in the cliffside that had large stone embedded in it in a effort to aid climber's footing, Cirridwen clutched tight to Bun. There had been an option to go up the stairs in Winterwatch Tower, but none of them had been feeling quite like risking Bun and Cirridwen's combined weight on the stairs. And so they had taken the scenic route, as Varric called it. They were just clearing the ridge when Cirridwen put a hand up, ears twitching. 

“Combat?”

They weren't quite quick enough to save them both, though they managed to get Ritts. Cirridwen brushed her fingers over the dead woman's eyes, closing them. 

“Thank you,” said the scout. “If not for you, I'd be dead.” A soft swirling malaise surrounded her, and Cirridwen looked up to examine her face. She looked remarkably put together considering what she was feeling. 

“Ritts?” 

“Do you need anything? If not, I should probably be reporting back,” Ritts hedged, fingers fidgeting with her bow. Cirridwen looked over at the small crate backed up against the tree by where a thick heavy cloth was laid out. On it was a bottle, some bread, a small bundle that likely contained other foodstuffs. 

“Looks like somebody was having a picnic,” she observed. 

“Uh, yes. The mage must have been looking for uh, blood magic,” the scout managed. Cassandra was watching Cirridwen, while Solas investigated the bundle and Varric watched Ritts. Cirridwen reached down to touch the dead woman's hands, tipping them over. Something about her felt familiar. She let the woman's hands rest and ran gentle fingers along her neck and collar. A fine chain, with a medallion on the end of it no larger than Cirridwen's thumb nail. The front was an icon of Andraste. On the back was engraved 'Transfigurations 1-2'. 

“She was a mage,” Cirridwen said, voice sombre. 

“Yes, Eldredda.” Ritts' voice was fond, until she seemed to realise what she said as both Cirridwen and Varric eyeballed her. 

“At least, I heard the other mages call her that.” Cirridwen's eyebrow raised. 

“The templars attacked the apostate,” The second brow joined the first. 

“I suppose I just... got caught in the middle.” Cirridwen's brows flirted with her hairline. 

“Alright, the truth. I may have been... passing time, with Eldredda,” Ritts admitted, fingers picking at her gloves fit to fray the leather. 

“There's the truth,” Cirridwen observed with a smile. “Though I cannot rightfully say I blame you. Comfort is hard to come by these days.” Her eyes flicked to Varric, who looked thoughtful. “Copper for your thoughts, Varric?”

“Kid, you managed to talk an apostate out of her pants in the middle of a war. You've got a gift, use it.” he offered, hands resting on his belt.

“Believe me, fugitive mages are difficult to sweet-talk,” Cirridwen interjected. 

“Make contacts, get information, and help the Inquisition. Do that, and our lips are sealed,” Varric followed up, easy confidence on his face while his eyes flicked not to Cassandra but to Cirridwen. 

“Do you swear such?” Cirridwen asked. Ritts nodded fiercely, fist going to tap her chest over her heart as she knelt before Cirridwen. 

“I swear. My life, my words, my information, for the Inquisition.” 

“Accepted. Thank you.” Cirridwen responded formally, as one hand came to cup alongside the top of Ritts' head. “Now up.We've things to get done at Lornan's Exile. Have you heard much of them?”

“Not a huge amount. They're a new cult, not three weeks old. Think that the Breach is a sign of the end of the world, and they're gathered there because of a rift. They think it's time to just... sit and wait for the Maker to come fetch them.” 

“Well that's going to be fun to deal with,” Varric muttered. 

“It's ridiculous,” Cassandra argued. 

“Desperate people do ridiculous things,” Cirridwen replied. “Go on with you, Ritts. I look forward to hearing what you do.” 

They left Ritts with Eldredda's body, the scout planning to take it down to where they'd earmarked for a camp in order to dispose of it properly.


	16. Chapter 16

Oh goody, an old Fereldan castle. The only problem with Fereldan architecture, Cirridwen mused as she and Cassandra both lifted their hands to hail the woman standing at the gate, was that it was built with one purpose in mind. Defence.

Secondary considerations like being warm, dry or comfortable tended to exist somewhere down the bottom of the list of features. At least they'd thought to build a pair of little walls to line the path to the front gate. Probably to make it more annoying to attack. The damp walls reared up to a full story easily enough, though once they hit what seemed to be the second level the mortar began to give way. The depth of it was impressive according to the gateway arch.

They drew up to the woman at the gate, who looked them over with a cool haughtiness. The kind that came from conviction rather than consequence.

“Hail,” Cassandra began when it looked Cirridwen wasn't going to speak first. “We have heard that there is a rift here. We have come from the Inquisition and this is the-”

“I know who you are,” The woman interrupted coolly, looking straight past Cassandra to Cirridwen. “They call you the “Herald of Andraste” for what you did at Haven.”

Cirridwen eyed her. Orange blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun, neat robes. Mid age, neither young nor old, much like Cirridwen herself.

-faithquestioningmustbetheMakerifnotMakerwhoelsemustbelievewhatIseewhatIfeelmusthavefaitheveniftheworldends-

Cirridwen dipped her head in acknowledgement, regal as any queen despite being dressed in practical clothes and mounted on a mule.

“But are you? The Maker has not told me.” 

“If I am, He's not seen fit to tell me either,” Cirridwen remarked wryly as she dismounted with some effort, Varric kind enough to lend her a hand.

“As I suspected. Stories of you mastering the rifts are just blind heresy,” she dismissed. Cassandra's gloves creaked warningly.

“Oh no. I can certainly close rifts,” Cirridwen corrected mildly.

“Then prove it. Show me that the rifts bend to your will, the will of the Maker. Show me the power you wield,” the woman challenged.

“Very well. The rift is behind you, no? About....” Cirridwen paused to consider the feel of the Veil about her. “Forty feet or so. Is there a cave or something behind the fort proper?”

“You're not wrong,” the woman said shortly.

“Then we'd best do something about it. May I have your name, please?” Cirridwen asked politely.

“I am Speaker Anais.”

“Thank you, Speaker Anais.”

The portcullis came up and the group passed within. Thankfully it didn't come back down after them, that would have sent far too many shudders up Cirridwen's spine. Mutters followed them as Cirridwen nudged Bun over to the small stables within, sliding off and hitching her to one of the posts without, meant for mounts only staying a short while.

“Lotta people here,” Varric observed. “All sorts too.”

He was right. Some of the people looked like rural folk, the stout and sturdy people you'd expect to find in the hinterlands. There were low murmurings from above, and glancing up she saw people leaning over a balcony to observe the courtyard. From the sounds coming behind them, she supposed that was the main communal area. Behind them a group knelt before a statue of Andraste that predated the Storm Age. Knots of other cult members stood about the courtyard, whispers and murmurs washing over Cirridwen's ears and mind. Some of them were very well dressed indeed, nobility and their servants from the looks of some of them. Men in livery.

“Nothing brings people together like the end of the world,” Cirridwen remarked drily. “Let's do something about that rift, and then we can see what we're dealing with here.”

As it turned out, there was indeed a rift sitting in the middle of a grotto that the fort backed into. Pre-Andrastian statues slumped against boulders and the rift flared to life at their approach, the demons flaring to life. It was only their fifth rift together, but already they seemed to be moving into a kind of pattern, an ease of interaction as Cassandra took point, Solas doing well with his barriers while Varric harried them. A snap of the Veil's fabric, a pull and then ripple, and the rift closed. The power that had allowed it to rip open flowed back into Cirridwen's palm and soaked into her, leaving her with the unnerving feeling of being just that hair more than herself. 

Returning to the courtyard, one of the worshipers took one look at them and trotted off, returning with Speaker Anais in tow. She peered behind them to the lack of green light in the grotto, eyes wide.

“Maker's tears, I was a fool to have doubted you. You're real.” At her worshipful gaze, Cirridwen didn't feel very real; she felt false, almost floating, uncomfortable. “How can we serve the Inquisition?”

Cirridwen took a moment to think. She found that if she put the correct face on while doing so, people tended to take it as grave deliberation, rather than her mind scrambling. Her eyes flicked about the courtyard, taking in the variety of people there. 

“You would best serve us by listening. Somebody created these breaches. Somebody made this happen. And somewhere, somebody will be talking. Bring what you can to the Inquisition, and we may yet find who.”

Having settled things with Anais and asked for locations of other rifts, their little party split up.

Solas was the first to find what he was looking for. Climbing up ladders that would have been more trouble than they were worth for the Herald, he found himself in a small lab next to an elf in robes. For a moment he just watched the boy. He was young, terribly so even without his own years in comparison. His ears stuck out in the manner common to awkward youth everywhere, his robes matching his height but too wide for him.

“Hyndel?” Solas asked.

“Yes?” the boy asked, turning around to face him. 

“Your parents asked that I find you,” Solas told him, and the boy's face creased into a petulant expression. Childish.

“If this is about returning to home, I'll have none of it. There's no point in sitting down there waiting for the world to come kill us. If they want to die on that patch of land, that's their business.” he told Solas.

Shoulders squared and posture upright, Solas regarded him evenly.

“Be that as it may, I did not come to ask for your return. Your mother cannot breathe, and your father needs the potion to keep her alive.”

The boy's eyes went wide as saucers, fingers fidgeting in his robe. “What? But Mother was fine, she hadn't had the breathing troubles in... never mind that, I can give you some now, and instructions!” Hyndel whirled and dug through the desk at his back, fishing out a bottle that he plunked by his elbow and frantically flicking through sheafs of paper. He turned back with the bottle and recipe both clutched in his hands. “Go, take it to her now, they'll be able to make more too.”

Solas however didn't move to take it. The boy was directionless, joining this cult in childish rebellion of what was known, looking to people he trusted more than his parents to guide him with no interest in his personal wellbeing. He had seen the letter Hyndel had written to his parents. “You should go yourself. You have the ears of the People but not the soul.”

“What?” the boy recoiled.

“The end of the world will come whereever you are. You can only help your family by going to them, rather than relying on strangers to do your errands,” Solas admonished with all the stern gravity of a disappointed schoolmaster. 

“I...” the boy wavered, and then his eyes dropped. The fight went out of him. “You're right. Even if this world is just an illusion about to be cast off... I should make my parents comfortable.” He turned, picking up a satchel and stuffing potion, notes and other minor items into the bag. “I'll gather my things and go directly.”

“Good, there's some sense in you after all,” Solas remarked, stepping back and clasping his hands behind him again. It was always nice to guide the young into a semblance of responsibility and intelligent choices. 

“Thank you, by the way. I, huh. I never asked your name.” the boy realised as he turned, bag at the ready and looking fit to hare off down to the Crossroads as quick as he could. 

“It's unimportant. Good luck,” Solas advised as he crossed the top of the portcullis, feeling the tug of a familiar piece of work while Hyndel looked after him for a moment and then scrambled down the ladder.

Cirridwen spoke with a man missing his love while somebody else flagged Cassandra down about a templar they were worried about. 

Meeting back down at the pensive statue in the courtyard, the group took stock. 

“There's a Rift down in Dwarfson's Pass,” Cirridwen declared. “We'll head down there first.”

“If I may,” Cassandra offered, “There is a templar whom someone is worried about. She thinks he may be unstable, and he left shortly, north west.” 

“But there's no way down the cliff there,” Varric said frowning. “Otherwise we'd have come up that way, would have been quicker.” 

Cirridwen's mouth compressed into a thin line. 

“Did she say anything about lyrium?” 

“No, nothing, only that he seemd... upset, about something other than the current unrest.” 

“Let's hope he's still alive. We'll plan the rest as we walk.” She clambered onto Bun. If what she suspected was true, they'd be looking for a body.

They found Ser Mattrin under a set of wooden statues, old idols. Somebody had been leaving offerings there, and Cirridwen leaned over the body.   
“Clever, foolish boy,” Cirridwen said sadly, scanning through the letter they'd found by him. Carefully rolled and stored in a waxed cover, it painted a story of the whole. Picking up the phylactery he'd had on him, she put it in her pocket, close to her person. 

“Somebody's coming out here regularly,” Varric observed, nodding to the offerings. “They'd find him within a day or so, if we didn't.” 

“He did not want his corpse to become a tool for demons,” Cassandra said, shaking her head. “He could have sought help.” 

Cirridwen drew her hand over him, a soft green veil following it, and shook her head. 

“His vascular system is constricted, there's crystallization in the blood, and other signs. He was dying regardless. He's too far from Val Royeux or Therinfal, and if he's here he wasn't with the rogues down the valley.” Cirridwen motioned the others to stand back. Raising her hand, flames licked up from the earth, engulfing the Templar's body. 

The heat forced them back, Bun's ears flicking in discomfort. However hot it burned, turning the body to ash, nothing burnt but the Templar and the grass beneath him. 

Solas found himself admiring the Herald's control, before she called stone up and over the now ash in molten metal, covering it up and tracing Mattrin's name into the stone. 

“We'll go around the other side of the valley after we clear Dwarfson's Pass,” Cirridwen declared. “If we didn't see that Lord's love on the way up, she'll likely be down one of the other passes.”


	17. Chapter 17

The rift wasn't anything particularly interesting or troublesome. That was saved for the mine they found further down the path. It first thrummed on Cirridwen's awareness, and a glance at Solas added to her suspicions. The knot of mercenaries were another clue, confirmed when they saw the entrance to the mine. A shimmering barrier filled in the entrance, and refused to budge when Cassandra experimentally tapped it with her sword. 

“Frost barrier,” Cirridwen noted. “Solas? You've got the flame staff.” Solas dropped the barrier with a few pummellings of fire.

“So what do you think, Bright-Eyes? Any chance they're friendly?” Varric asked. 

“My hope is that they're frightened, and acting defensively.” Cirridwen said, though she readied her staff and her attendants regardless. They pressed in on her, whispering. “Ah. No. Despair demons. Cassandra, you're at point.”

The apostate and his minions fell easily enough, especially when Cirridwen brought her will to bear on his demons and crushed them out of existence. When they were done, she sent another wisp back to camp to let them know of the new cache of supplies for the refugees. 

“A drakestone mine. The Inquisition could use this,” Cassandra mused.

“It'd solve your iron problem, kinda,” Varric said, scratching his stubble. “Probably not what you want to use for nails though.” 

Cirridwen frowned, something plucking at her senses. 

“Hold that thought. Solas, do you... feel that?” she asked.

“Like the way silence rings, almost,” he acknowledged. 

“Weapons ready. I've a terrible notion this mine has some extras.” They only got a turn and a half down the mine before the red glow along the walls started. They found a large Lyrium vein, mining tools, and a dead dwarf.

“Well shit.” Varric summed up as they hovered uneasily at the entrance to the mine. “Whoever that dwarf was, he was in way over his head.”

“We can't just leave red lyrium sitting there.” Cassandra said.

“No, but we're not equipped to deal with it either,” Cirridwen said. “None of us are Mining Caste, and I doubt that the usual methods for managing lyrium apply to the red variant.” 

“Perhaps compression to keep the volume down, and a rock wall to make it more difficult to get to?” Solas suggested. 

“There's an idea. Do you have much skill with Force magic?” Cirridwen asked.

“I am better at stone crafting,” Solas admitted. 

“Alright, then. I'm afraid Ser Dead Dwarf is staying there though.” Cirridwen said, reaching out and curling her hand into a fist rhythmically while her spirits fluttered. “You, please chase the other and warn whoever comes here for the cache about the lyrium. They mustn't try to mine here.” It flitted out as the red lyrium crunched into itself, the sound of it screeching across her and Solas' ears, making both of them wince and Varric look uncomfortable. 

“Whatever you're doing, I don't think the lyrium likes it,” Cassandra said, distaste on her face clear.

“Please don't phrase it like that Seeker, it just makes it even weirder,” Varric pleaded, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

It was not a moment too soon for any of them when Solas brought up layers of stone between them and the vein, cutting off the sound almost entirely. 

“We're not paid enough for this,” Varric grouched as they left.

“You're not paid at all,” Cassandra told him.

“I'm more worried that it's here. Not in a Thaig so old it doesn't look dwarven,” Cirridwen quoted Varric, “And not where known lyrium veins were exposed to a huge mass of unknown, unstable magic. It's just sitting here in the countryside, where any fool could wander into it.”

“If we find any more of those, Bright-Eyes, we need to destroy them,” Varric said, shaking his head as they left. Things didn't get any better when they found the second dead dwarf after culling a knot of templars with an interesting ring Cirridwen pocketed.

“Somebody did not like this dwarf,” Solas observed. Varric meanwhile was squinting at the walls, scratch marks and some sad tattered papers. Cassandra was busy looking at the numerous swords (three, to be precise) thrust into the dwarf's back. 

“Nobody needs three swords to kill one person and leaves them behind,” she said, shaking her head. “These are also shoddily made. This is a message, pure and simple.”

Varric made a face and shoved a rolled up parchment into his shirt front. He caught Cirridwen's eye. She raised an eyebrow, and he tapped a finger to his cheek bone. Cirridwen looked up at the ceiling and then slid her eyes to the left. Varric smiled crookedly.

“Whoever he is, we'll need to keep an eye on this cave. Those are smuggler marks, no?” Cirridwen asked. 

“Worse.” Varric said. “Carta.” 

“..... bugger.” Cirridwen said succinctly. “We can keep an eye on them, but I doubt we'll be able to do much about them if it's anything we need to care about.” 

“For now, the Carta is not our concern,” Cassandra said, shaking her head in disgust. “These rifts are. The maps Corporal Vale showed me say there are another two we missed on our way up.”

They dutifully trouped out of the cave, where Cirridwen looked up at the sky, face thoughtful. 

“I think, whatever we do, we had best stop for the night soon. I'm not traipsing about unfamiliar countryside in the dark.” she declared. Fortuitously, it was at that moment that her cloud of attendants bobbed in excitement, a little wisp of green bouncing across the boulders and grass to join them. Cirridwen lifted her hand to it and it sank into her palm, pulsing happily. 

“I see.” She struggled onto Bun, Varric being kind enough to give her a boost. “This little one tells me that the camp we earmarked below Winterwatch Tower has been set up by Inquisition soldiers. We'll be able to find beds there tonight.”

As they began walking, Solas drew alongside her.

“Your companion seems pleased,” he noted, head dipping towards her. 

“Yes, it does.” Cirridwen smiled, a small private thing as it bumped into her cheek before the others swarmed it, nudging it about amongst them. “I suspect it will grow well.” 

“You think it _will_ grow then?” Solas asked.

“Yes. What are wisps, but nascent spirits? A little like dust-bunnies under couches and in corners. They feed on what there is to be had, and they grow. Do you remember what you told me, of dreaming at Ostagar?” she asked, referring to a conversation they had on the way north. “If I encourage it with positive emotions, it will reflect them, take them on, and become something more, hopefully better.” 

“Do you consider all spirits so changeable?” Solas asked, picking his way carefully over rocks like Cassandra and Varric's ears weren't waggling hard.

“No,” Cirridwen huffed out a small amused sound and glanced at him. “Are you so changeable? Or Cassandra? I could maybe change your views on some small things, but I couldn't reshape your personalities.”

“And these spirits?” Solas indicated the wisps bouncing around them.

“Did I not tell you this before? I must have. They don't have a great deal of experience of our world. What they learn will shape them. The most I can do is try to provide positive lessons.”

“Like a hahren to children,” Solas said, a faint smile about his lips. 

“Hahren? _Now_ you sound elvhen,” Cirridwen teased. “I so rarely hear you use elvish words.”

“I so rarely meet those who speak them,” Solas riposted. “So you consider yourself an elder of spirits?” 

“Only of wisps. Those who have an identity need my respect, not my guidance,” Cirridwen demurred. “I’ve had some, over the years, choose for themselves what they wished to be. They’d learned enough to have a direction, and it would have done no good to keep them.”

“Sounds like kids when they come into their own,” Varric commented, nudging into the conversation while Cassandra pretended she wasn’t interested. “Can’t tell ‘em a damn thing, but let them go figure it out themselves and hope you’ve taught ‘em enough to not hurt themselves too badly.”

“Yes and no. You can’t forget, they still aren’t children, no more than a puppy or foal is. They’ll always be something different from mortals.”

Conversation lapsed then, as they picked their way through the dying afternoon light and came upon the campsite. Tents had been erected, a placid looking druffalo munching on hay next to an empty dray while a pair of scouts were pouring over a map. They snapped to attention along with another two soldiers in the area when they spotted the approaching party. 

“Herald!” one of them called, only to be elbowed by his companion. “I-uh, Milady Cirridwen! We’ve set up the camp, as you can see, and I’ve a report on the local area that I can have ready for you by the morrow for review.”

One of the soldiers took Bun’s head and lead the mule to be tethered near the druffalo while Cirridwen peered at the map. It had little green shapes of glass on it, clearly meant by their positioning to reflect rifts while other shapes showed the position of the camp, the crossroads, and the first camp they’d come across. Placed outside to make the most of the evening light, Cirridwen nodded over it. 

“You may have to rearrange your report a little. What’s your name?” she asked. “Also, do you have a seat around here?”

The scout, whom Cirridwen learned was called Scout Farnham, found a makeshift seat of a sack of spare uniforms on top of a tall basket so Cirridwen could comfortably view the map as she and Cassandra updated the scout.   
“Here and here, and one here. So these rift markers can be removed,” Cirridwen plucked them off. 

“We also have the allegiance of the cultists in Winterwatch Tower,” Cassandra advised, the scout taking quick and efficient notes.

“Here and here,” Cirridwen put wooden markers on two spots, one of which she touched with red ink. “We’ve got two spots to keep an eye on. This one is a smuggler’s cavern which we’ve found evidence of the Carta in. I want that observed only, without appearing to be watched. Whatever happens there is likely to be interesting. This one, we found red lyrium.”

“We got your word, your worship, by two of your little spirit things. Came bouncing in and gave Thelma a fright when it bumped right into her, one-two. She just… knew, somehow, that there was a cache there and red lyrium, and we were to collect one and not touch the other.” 

“Good,” Cirridwen said. “I’m glad that they arrived with their messages.” Farnham cleared her throat and shuffled her feet a little. Cirridwen waited. 

“Uh, ma’am, will that be something that happens a lot? With the spirits, I mean. Because begging your pardon, but it’s a little unnatural.” Cirridwen let her continue to speak. “It’s not the worst! I mean, they’re a bit scary, but uh, we do trust you, it’s just, they’re spirits, just, ambling around and like they’re supposed to be there and all, what with everything that’s happening to the breach and the Veil and all-“

“Breathe,” Cirridwen said kindly. “You’re starting to look a little off colour. Allow me to explain something.” She held out her hands, her attendants alighting on her hands and arms. “Spirits are as natural as anything else. They live, they have wants and needs, they will exist with or without our interference. There’s nothing unnatural about them. But Farnham, what they _are_ is useful.”

Scout Farnham continued to look a little off colour, and Cirridwen sighed. A curl of her hands, a nudge, and the little wisps vanished back through the Veil, all but two that settled on her shoulders, cuddled up close under the wings of her coif. Scout Farnham visibly relaxed at the demonstration of control. 

“I thank you, ma'am.” 

After that they wrapped quickly, Cirridwen laying her plans for the morrow. The sky was darkening when Scout Farnham and one of the soldiers lifted the table between them and carried them into the largest tent, which Cirridwen found was intended for whoever the highest ranking in camp was at the time. In this case, that meant her and Cassandra. Used to early hours, the two of them retired almost as quickly as Solas after the evening meal. Varric stayed by the fire with the soldiers and scouts, sharing stories as they all worked on nightwork around the shared light source.

Using the dim glow of the fire through the tent and the light of her wisps, Cirridwen unwound the ties of her coif and let her hair down, combing it through.

“You wear your hair very long,” Cassandra observed. “Does it not bother you?” 

“No,” Cirridwen said. “Why would it? That's what the coif is for.”

“It is... unusual. You are a woman of action,” Cassandra admitted, and sat on her cot with a thump as she unbuckled her greaves. “I would have thought you would prefer it shorter.” 

“It's one of few vanities I allow myself,” Cirridwen replied. “And yourself? Did you always cut your hair so short?” 

Cassandra huffed a sound that might have been disgust or amusement, it was hard to tell. 

“My uncle thought that I should have my hair long and my dresses frilly, as a porcelain doll to be kept on a shelf and dusted occasionally.” Thump thump, the greaves were put aside and she started on her cuisse. Cirridwen braided her hair again now that it had been combed. 

“You are Nevarran, no?” 

“Yes. I did not see much of my country until I was much older. But I knew even then that I wanted to be a Seeker.” 

“How old were you?” Cirridwen lifted her spaulders off and laid them on the floor beside the cot neatly. 

“Six years old, when I started. The Seekers were my world.” 

“You mention an uncle. Your parents were happy to give you over to the Seekers?” Cirridwen asked, shrugging out of the surcoat. Cassandra was doing the same with her breastplate. 

“My parents died when I was very young. They were on the wrong side in the second attempt to overthrow King Markus.” Cassandra's voice was matter of fact, a loss that she did not feel deeply. “My brother Antony and I were only children at the time, and still family, so we were spared and given to my uncle, a Mortalitasi.” 

“I thought you seemed unusually comfortable with my attendants, for somebody so devout. But I suspect you've seen a great deal of them with your uncle.” 

Cassandra made a sound of disgust, lying down in her gambeson as Cirridwen loosened her stays enough to sleep.

“More than enough. Uncle Vestalus preferred the company of his corpses to that of the living. The Grand Necropolis is dreadful. The constant moaning.” A soft thump as Cassandra attempted to beat her pillow into submission. Cirridwen moved hers to support her knee. “Nevarrans spend more time honouring dead relatives than they do with the living. I will never understand the obsession with death and its trappings.” 

Cirridwen's spirit flitted to her saddlebags which had been thoughtfully brought in, bringing her night-bag. Cirridwen pulled out her toothbrush, tapping the bristles in the small pot of cleaning powder and scrubbing it over her teeth to clean them. Having done her nightly rituals earlier, Cassandra merely watched.  
Putting the powder back into the night-bag, Cirridwen took out a wooden flask. It was the length of her hand, round in silhouette but slightly flattened with a corked top. A quick shake, and she put it to her lips. A swift toss back, and the taste of elfroot and other herbs washed quick through her mouth. One mouthful down, and she corked the bottle, putting it back. 

“Thank you. Return this, please.” Her attendants took the bag, ferrying it over to her saddlebags before ducking back. “I’ll see you and the others soon,” she told them, and they winked out of sight. Cirridwen laid down, feeling the slow heavy warmth of the potion spread through her. 

“Maker guard your sleep, Herald.” Cassandra said from across the now dark tent. 

“Goodnight, Seeker,” Cirridwen responded.


End file.
